Snowfall and Scissors

The snow had started earlier than expected, heavier than the forecast had warned. By now, the roads were barely visible beneath the thick blanket of white, and the plows on the Massachusetts Turnpike couldn’t keep up. My windshield wipers worked furiously, but the snow clung to the glass, turning the taillights of the cars ahead into hazy red smears. The heater was running at full blast, filling the car with warm air, but the cold still found ways to creep in. It wasn’t just the weather making me tense, though. The traffic was crawling, and I was already behind schedule.

I shouldn’t have been out in this storm. The roads were getting worse by the minute, and common sense told me I should have stayed home. But there wasn’t much of a choice. Zach had landed, and someone had to pick him up. He was my cousin—technically my mom’s cousin’s son, but close enough that we’d grown up side by side, turning every family gathering into our own little world of inside jokes and shared mischief. Even though we’d spent less time together in recent years, with him away at college in North Carolina and me juggling school and work closer to home, there was still an unspoken understanding between us. No matter how much time passed, we always picked up right where we left off.

With the family reunion happening tonight—the first one in years—Mom had made it clear that getting Zach there was non-negotiable. Grandpa had been looking forward to it, and missing it wasn’t an option. His flight had already been delayed, and now, thanks to this storm, we’d be lucky to get home at all, let alone on time.

My phone, mounted on the dashboard, lit up with the last message he’d sent. We just landed. Meet you at Arrivals. Good luck out there. The way he worded it made it sound like I was embarking on some heroic journey instead of a simple airport pickup, but given the state of the roads, maybe he wasn’t too far off. I typed back a quick reply, telling him I was already outside, and added a hasty Hurry. It’s bad out here. before hitting send.

A knock on the passenger-side window startled me. He stood outside, grinning despite the freezing wind whipping around him. Snow clung to his coat and lashes, though his dark hair, cropped short in a neat crew cut, remained untouched by the storm. He knocked again, rubbing his hands together for warmth as I reached for the unlock button.

The door opened, letting in a blast of icy air as he slid inside. He stomped the slush off his boots and pulled the door shut behind him with a sigh of relief, his duffel bag dropping onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Made it,” he exhaled, breath clouding in the cold. “I thought I was gonna freeze out there.”

“You took your time,” I muttered, shifting the car into gear as the line inched forward. The roads were a mess, and I didn’t want to waste another second.

“Blame baggage claim,” he shot back, flashing that easy grin of his. “One of the belts broke, and people were losing their minds. You’re lucky I didn’t just leave my bag and walk out.”

I glanced at him, unimpressed. “You could’ve at least texted.”

“And have you read it while driving in this mess? I’d rather you not slide us into a snowbank.” He leaned back, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Besides, you knew I’d be out here eventually.”

Typical Zach. Always calm, always acting like things would just work themselves out. Meanwhile, my fingers gripped the wheel with white-knuckled tension, fully aware of how easily this whole trip could go south.

The traffic out of Logan Airport was a slow-moving nightmare. Cars crawled forward, hazard lights flashing as drivers navigated through the mess of ice and slush. The turnpike wasn’t much better—salt trucks had passed through, but the snowfall was relentless, undoing their efforts in minutes. I kept both hands on the wheel, hyper-aware of every slight slide of the tires. Visibility was awful, the snow swirling so thickly that even the glowing brake lights ahead were faint and distorted.

“You’re holding onto that wheel like it’s about to escape,” he observed, his voice laced with amusement.

“Maybe because I’m driving on ice?” I shot back, jaw tight. “Do you not see these roads?”

“It’s just snow,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve got snow tires, right?”

“Yeah, and they don’t make me invincible.” I braked gently as the car ahead of me slowed, barely resisting the urge to snap at him. “You want to drive?”

“Nope,” he replied easily, holding up his hands. “You’ve got it, Captain Serious.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the slight twitch of a smile at the corner of my mouth. That was Zach—unbothered, laid-back, the complete opposite of me. His easygoing attitude used to drive me insane when we were kids, but now, in a situation like this, it was oddly grounding.

“How was the flight?” I asked, mostly to distract myself from the treacherous road ahead.

He stretched his legs out as much as the cramped space allowed, adjusting his coat. “Not bad, considering they had to de-ice the plane twice before takeoff. Honestly, I thought they’d cancel it, but here I am.”

I sighed. “Mom’s going to freak if we don’t make it to the reunion.”

He nodded, expression softening. “I know. Grandpa’s been looking forward to this, huh?”

I didn’t answer right away. Traffic had slowed to a near stop, the red brake lights stretching endlessly ahead. The weight of the situation settled over me, the realization that we might be stuck here for a long time. The heater hummed, and inside the car, everything was warm and still, but outside, the storm raged on.

Zach shifted in his seat, watching the snow pile up along the sides of the road. “So, what’s the plan if we’re stuck here all night?”

I tightened my grip on the wheel. “We’re not going to be stuck all night.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“Because I am.”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “I don’t know, Amanda. Looks like a parking lot out there. You’ve got snacks in the car, right? A survival kit? Maybe a blanket?”

“Very funny,” I muttered.

He shrugged, but I could tell he was watching me closely, reading my tension even if he wasn’t saying anything about it.

The minutes stretched on, the cars barely moving. My phone buzzed with a message from Mom, asking for an update. I typed back a quick Still on the road. Slow going. and sent it before she could start worrying.

Zach peered out the window at the strip mall just off the highway exit. The buildings were barely visible through the thick snowfall, but their glowing signs stood out against the darkening sky. A few businesses still had their lights on—two diners, a small convenience store, and a barbershop with a red-and-white striped pole flickering in the window.

“Looks like people are ditching their cars,” he noted, nodding toward the figures trudging through the snow toward the open stores. “We could join them.”

I hesitated. The idea of leaving the car wasn’t exactly appealing, but sitting here for hours in the freezing cold sounded worse.

He smirked. “That place probably has coffee.”

I sighed, turning up the heater another notch. “Alright. Let’s check it out.”

The wind hit like a slap as soon as I opened the door, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. Snow crunched under my boots as I stepped out, pulling my hood tighter around my face. My ponytail, damp from the humidity in the car, clung to my neck uncomfortably. Zach grabbed his bag and fell into step beside me, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“You good?” he asked, glancing over.

I nodded, though the biting wind stole my breath. The barbershop was closer than the diners, and it looked warm. Without another word, we trudged toward it, unaware of just how much that one decision would change everything.

The barbershop door swung shut behind me, cutting off the howl of the wind as warmth wrapped around my frozen limbs. The shift from the storm outside to the stillness within was almost disorienting—like stepping into a space removed from time itself. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the black-and-white checkered floor. The air carried the unmistakable scent of aftershave, warm shaving cream, and something metallic—clippers, most likely—lingering beneath it all.

Zach stomped the snow off his boots, shaking the flakes from his coat before dropping his duffel bag by the door. I stayed closer to the entrance, hands shoved deep into my pockets, shifting uncomfortably as I took in the surroundings. The shop was small, old-fashioned, with two large barber chairs sitting like thrones in the center of the room. Framed photos of haircuts lined the walls, all featuring sharp fades, clean crew cuts, and tight buzzes. This wasn’t the kind of place I’d ever step into by choice, and my stomach twisted at the thought of lingering here too long.

Behind one of the chairs, a man was wiping down his station with slow, methodical movements. He was older, maybe late forties, with neatly combed graying hair and a sharp jaw that spoke of someone who had once been intimidating but had softened with age. His flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, and his demeanor exuded quiet confidence—the kind of man who didn’t ask twice.

He glanced up at our entrance, his dark eyes flicking from Zach to me, then to the storm outside. A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“Hell of a night to be out,” he remarked, tossing the towel onto the counter. His voice carried that distinct New England drawl, vowels stretched just slightly, giving his words an unhurried weight.

“You could say that,” Zach replied, already making himself at home as he stretched his arms. “Hope you don’t mind us waiting it out here for a bit.”

The barber shook his head. “Not at all. Storm like this, you’re lucky to have made it this far. Take a seat, warm up.”

Zach wasted no time dropping into one of the wooden chairs lining the wall, while I hesitated near the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. The barber took his time studying us, his gaze lingering on my damp ponytail.

“You keep it sharp,” he said, nodding at Zach’s neatly trimmed hair. “Need a touch-up?”

Zach laughed, running a hand over his head. “Nah, I’m good. But, uh—” He smirked, jerking a thumb toward me. “Maybe she could use one.”

My stomach clenched. “Not happening,” I shot back quickly, taking a step away from the chair.

The barber let out a low chuckle, but there was something in his eyes—something assessing, calculating. He was reading me, breaking me down the way only someone with years of experience could. The way a predator sizes up prey.

“No pressure,” he said, voice casual, though I could hear the persuasion laced beneath it. “But that’s a lot of hair to be carrying around in weather like this.”

I forced a stiff smile. “I manage.”

“Mm.” He wiped his hands on a clean towel, then leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Sure you do. But managing ain’t the same as easy, is it?”

I didn’t answer.

He let the silence settle, watching me with that same unreadable expression, as if he knew the gears in my head were already turning. I could feel the weight of my hair, damp and frizzing at the edges, sticking uncomfortably to the back of my coat. The ponytail I had hastily tied before leaving home was now a tangled mess, and the strands near my neck had already started to curl from the humidity of the shop.

“Bet it’s a pain to dry,” he continued, his voice taking on that slow, coaxing rhythm. “Hard to keep out of your face when the wind’s whipping like that.”

I swallowed, shifting my stance. “It’s fine.”

He hummed like he didn’t believe me. “Could lighten it up for you. Just a trim.”

I shook my head. “I’m not—”

“Wouldn’t take much,” he pressed, stepping closer, his presence suddenly filling the space around me. “Just clean up those ends. You’d walk out feeling like a whole new person.”

There was something in his voice, something steady and assured, like he already knew I would say yes. Like he’d already decided for me.

I gripped the edges of my coat, feeling the material bunch beneath my fingers. “I—I really don’t—”

Zach, watching this unfold with amusement, leaned forward. “C’mon, Amanda. You’ve been messing with your hair since we got here. Just do it.”

I shot him a glare, but he only smirked.

The barber took another step forward, tilting his head. “It’s just hair, sweetheart. It’ll grow back.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Something about the way he said it—the way he dismissed my hesitation so easily, like it wasn’t even an option—made my breath hitch. My feet felt rooted in place, my body betraying me as my mind scrambled for an excuse.

And then, before I could stop myself—before I could fully process what I was doing—my shoulders slumped in defeat.

“…Just a trim,” I mumbled, barely audible.

The barber’s lips twitched, a quiet victory shining in his eyes. “That’s the spirit.”

Before I could change my mind, he gestured toward the chair. My legs felt heavy, as if they didn’t belong to me, as I forced myself to move forward. The chair loomed ahead, its leather seat impossibly large, the chrome armrests gleaming under the shop lights. The second I sat down, I knew I had made a mistake.

The barber wasted no time. He moved with effortless efficiency, reaching behind me to gather my ponytail in his hand, tugging it lightly as if assessing the weight.

“Lot of hair,” he mused. “Bet it hasn’t been cut in a while.”

I swallowed hard. “A few months.”

He hummed like that confirmed something for him. The next moment, his fingers found the elastic, pulling it free with a single, swift motion. My hair spilled over my shoulders, cascading down my back, and the absence of the ponytail made me feel strangely exposed.

Then came the cape.

It was thick, heavier than I expected, the material stiff as he unfurled it with a practiced flick. The fabric billowed for a second before settling over me, its weight swallowing my frame. The crisp snap of the fastener echoed in the quiet room as he secured it around my neck, tugging it snugly—just a little tighter than necessary. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine.

I lifted a hand instinctively, but he caught my wrist mid-motion, gently but firmly lowering it back to the armrest.

“Relax,” he murmured, his tone smooth, almost soothing. “Let me take care of you.”

My throat tightened.

The cape felt suffocating, pressing against my collarbones, sealing me into place. I had never felt more trapped.

The soft click of scissors being picked up sent a spike of anxiety through my chest.

This was happening.

There was no going back.

Frank stepped around me, tugging my ponytail free from under the cape. The thick, dark strands spilled over my shoulders, cascading down in unruly waves. He combed through it slowly, methodically, his fingers grazing my scalp as he assessed the length.

“You’ve got good hair,” he said, almost to himself. “Thick, healthy. Just needs some proper shaping.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my heart hammering against my ribs. My long hair framed my face, familiar, safe. But beneath the cape, I felt powerless. I wasn’t in control anymore.

Frank lifted a section, twisting it between his fingers as if weighing his next move. “We’ll just clean it up,” he murmured, reaching for his scissors.

I opened my mouth to stop him—

Then—

The first snip.

The sound was crisp, final, sending a shock of panic through my chest. I felt the sudden weightlessness as the severed strands slid down the cape, landing in my lap.

My breath caught.

That was more than just the ends.

I gripped the armrests tightly, my knuckles white beneath the cape. “Frank—”

“Relax,” he interrupted smoothly, lifting another section. “You’re gonna love this.”

Another snip. Another. More hair tumbled down, collecting in a dark pile against the stark white fabric.

I felt lightheaded.

I had agreed to a trim. A simple, harmless trim.

But Frank had other plans.

And now, I was completely at his mercy.

The rhythmic snip, snip, snip of the scissors filled my ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the barbershop. Each cut was deliberate, precise, and far more than what I had expected. My heart pounded against my ribs, my fingers curled tightly around the armrests beneath the heavy cape, but my voice—my protest—was trapped somewhere in my throat.

Frank worked with quiet confidence, his fingers sifting through my thick hair as he lifted another section. The comb glided through effortlessly, separating a generous lock near the back of my head. He twisted it lightly between his fingers, measuring, considering, before his scissors slid into place. The cool steel pressed against my strands just below my shoulders—far, far higher than the “just a trim” I had imagined. Before I could react, the blades closed with a soft, merciless shhhk, severing the length in an instant. The weight of my hair fell away, and I felt the unsettling lightness at my nape grow with every pass of his scissors.

I sucked in a shaky breath, staring at my reflection with wide, horrified eyes. The long, cascading waves I had always known were disappearing at an alarming rate, reduced to choppy, jagged ends that barely skimmed my collarbone. The severed locks slid down the cape, pooling in my lap—dark, silken strands that had once framed my face, now discarded like they meant nothing.

Frank’s movements were fluid, methodical. He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask before taking another handful of my hair between his fingers and cutting again. His grip was firm yet controlled as he gathered another section from the crown of my head, pulling it taut between his knuckles. His scissors hovered for a brief second, the sharp blades resting just beneath my chin.

My breath hitched. That was too high.

I tensed, my nails pressing into the armrests, but before I could form the words—wait, stop, not that short—the blades sliced through effortlessly, sending yet another thick lock of hair tumbling down onto the cape. The newly shorn ends swung freely around my face, abruptly exposing my jawline in a way that felt foreign, wrong.

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting as Frank ran his fingers through what was left of my hair. The thick weight that had once shielded my shoulders was gone. Instead, what remained was blunt, severe—hovering precariously close to my chin.

“This is shaping up real nice,” he mused, gently tilting my head forward with his fingertips. His tone was calm, casual, as if he hadn’t just taken off inches of my hair without warning. “We’ll just refine the shape a little more.”

Refine? My heart lurched. He wasn’t done?

Frank’s hand pressed lightly against the back of my head, encouraging me to keep my chin tucked forward. I obeyed automatically, my body stiff with shock as he moved behind me. The cool metal of the comb traced the curve of my nape, smoothing the freshly cut ends. Then, with a quiet click, his scissors reopened, positioning themselves just below the newly shortened length.

A fresh wave of panic surged through me as I felt the unmistakable tension of my hair being lifted once more. He wasn’t trimming anymore. He was reshaping, shortening, controlling.

I wanted to speak, to push his hands away, to demand an explanation. But my mouth was dry, my throat tight, and before I could summon my voice—

Shhhk.

The blades closed with unwavering precision, cutting away yet another handful of hair. The sound was deafening, final, and I swore I could feel each lock falling from my head, brushing against the back of my neck before sliding down the cape.

Frank adjusted his grip, moving methodically from one side of my nape to the other. His fingers combed through what was left, gathering small sections between his knuckles, and with each new snip, more of my hair rained down. The movements were quick, efficient—like he had done this a thousand times before, like he knew I wouldn’t stop him.

I clenched my jaw, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. My mind raced, trying to process the reality of what was happening. He wasn’t just giving me a trim. He wasn’t just shaping my hair.

He was shearing it.

With each passing moment, more and more of my security, my familiarity, my identity was stripped away.

Frank finally straightened, brushing loose strands from the back of my neck with the back of his hand. He met my eyes in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “That’s better,” he murmured, but he wasn’t talking to me—he was talking about his work.

I barely heard him.

All I could do was stare at my reflection.

The hair that had once tumbled past my shoulders was gone, reduced to a short, sharp cut that framed my face with precision. The ends, once soft and flowing, now sat stark and blunt, with not a single wave left to soften them. My jawline was completely exposed, my neck suddenly vulnerable.

I swallowed thickly, my fingers twitching beneath the cape.

It was so short.

And yet, Frank still wasn’t done.

I saw the moment his eyes flicked to my nape, assessing, calculating. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the exposed skin as if contemplating his next move.

Then—his hand dropped to the counter.

A soft click echoed in the quiet shop.

The unmistakable hum of clippers roared to life.

My body froze.

Every nerve in my body went rigid as the low, steady vibration filled the space around me. My heart slammed against my ribcage, my breath catching in my throat.

“No,” I whispered, barely able to hear myself over the buzz.

But Frank had already placed a firm hand against the back of my head, tilting my chin downward once more.

“Just cleaning up the nape,” he said smoothly, his voice betraying no urgency, no concern for the sheer panic rising in my chest. “You’ll thank me later.”

The clippers inched closer, their warmth radiating against my skin before the cold metal touched the base of my neck.

I flinched.

The vibration buzzed through me, foreign and invasive.

Then—

The first pass.

The sharp blades grazed upward, mowing through the last remnants of length at my nape. The contrast was instant—the sensation of weight disappearing, of air brushing directly against my skin where hair had once been. I gasped softly, my fingers twitching beneath the cape, but Frank’s grip kept me steady.

Another pass. Another. Each stroke of the clippers carved away more of what had once been mine, leaving behind nothing but soft, shorn skin. The severed strands tumbled down the back of the chair, sliding to the floor in silent defeat.

I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was sit there.

Sit there as Frank worked, as he shaped the back of my hair into something precise, something controlled, something that I had never wanted but now had no choice but to accept.

The hum of the clippers finally stopped, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Frank lifted my chin once more, his fingers tilting my head ever so slightly to examine his work. His smirk was faint, satisfied, as he brushed a hand over the newly clipped nape.

“There we go,” he murmured, stepping back. “Now that’s a haircut.”

I swallowed hard, my entire body stiff as he loosened the cape. The heavy fabric slipped from my shoulders, and the last remnants of my hair scattered to the floor.

My reflection stared back at me, unrecognizable.

The blunt, chin-length bob was stark, precise, severe. The undercut was clean, sharp, brutally exposed at the back.

Frank dusted off his hands, watching my reaction carefully. “Told you,” he said with quiet amusement. “You’ll never go back.”

I blinked, my fingers hesitantly reaching up, brushing over the shorn nape, feeling nothing but air.

I had gone back.

Way too far.

And now—there was nothing I could do to undo it.

The air in the barbershop felt thick—warmer than before, yet suffocating. My breath came shallow, uneven, as my fingers skimmed over the newly shaved nape of my neck. It felt foreign, too light, too exposed, a stark contrast to the heavy weight that had once cascaded down my back. The cold reality of what had just happened sat like a stone in my stomach.

Frank was watching me, his arms crossed, the faintest smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was pleased, satisfied with what he had done. But me? My body was still catching up to the shock.

The cape had already been pulled away, my severed hair discarded like it meant nothing. The thick, silken strands that had once been mine lay in scattered piles on the floor, severed in neat, merciless clumps. I could hardly look at them. The sight made my chest tighten, my throat burn with an emotion I wasn’t sure I wanted to name.

Zach was still seated in the waiting area, his expression unreadable. For once, his usual teasing remarks were absent, and that scared me even more than if he’d been laughing. If he wasn’t making light of this, then that meant it was as bad as I thought.

My hands curled into fists against my lap, nails pressing into my palms. I needed to get out of here. I needed to leave before—

Frank turned slightly, reaching for a small handheld mirror on the counter. Before I could stop him, he held it up behind me, angling it so that I had no choice but to see.

The moment my eyes landed on my reflection, a cold wave of panic surged through me.

My nape—bare.

The sharp, blunted bob framed my jaw, perfectly even, perfectly harsh. But the back—oh god, the back. The undercut was stark, brutal, clipped up so high that my neck looked longer than I had ever seen it before. The contrast between the weighty blunt line of my bob and the naked skin beneath was jarring.

I swallowed thickly, my breath hitching as I fought the rising lump in my throat.

“See?” Frank said smoothly, his voice laced with something almost sly. “Now that is how you wear short hair.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. My fingers flexed against my thighs, my whole body stuck between the instinct to run and the reality that it was already too late.

Frank set the mirror down, brushing his hands off. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, so nonchalantly it made my skin crawl.

I forced myself to inhale. Then exhale. Then move.

With stiff, jerky movements, I rose from the chair, my legs still weak beneath me. The absence of my long hair was immediate, overwhelming. My head felt lighter, too exposed, the cool air of the shop brushing against my nape with every tiny movement.

Zach stood too, his expression finally shifting into something between amusement and awkward sympathy. “Well…” He dragged the word out, eyeing my reflection. “That is a change.”

I shot him a sharp look, but the weight of my anger felt small compared to the overwhelming feeling of loss curling in my chest.

Frank, meanwhile, had already moved on, shaking out the cape and letting the remnants of my hair tumble to the floor like nothing had happened. He nodded toward the mirror one last time. “Give it a few days,” he said smoothly. “You’ll wonder why you didn’t do it sooner.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond.

Instead, I grabbed my coat from the chair, my fingers gripping the fabric so tightly my knuckles turned white. It was a desperate move—an attempt to find something, anything, familiar to cling to. But even as I yanked it on, I could still feel the shaved nape pressing against the thick collar.

My stomach turned.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked toward the door, my pulse hammering in my ears. The weight of Frank’s stare burned into my back, but I refused to look at him again.

The moment I stepped outside, the cold night air hit me like a slap. I inhaled sharply, but even that wasn’t enough to steady the tremor in my hands.

The storm had stopped.

Of course, it had.

The roads were still blanketed in snow, the cars still dusted with white, but the sky—clear. The streetlights cast sharp shadows against the pavement, and the occasional distant honk signaled that traffic was moving again.

The universe had waited. It had trapped me in there just long enough for Frank to do this to me.

Zach stepped beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets. He didn’t say anything at first, just exhaled a long, slow breath as he looked out at the road.

Finally, after a moment, he glanced at me. “So, uh…” He hesitated. “You okay?”

I let out a sharp laugh. It was short, humorless, bitter. “What do you think?”

He nodded like he expected that response, rocking back on his heels. “Hey, at least you won’t have to deal with knots anymore.”

I whipped my head toward him so fast that the blunt edges of my bob shifted sharply against my jaw. “Zach.” My voice was a warning.

“Okay, okay,” he held his hands up in surrender, but his lips twitched with barely-contained amusement. “Too soon. Got it.”

I exhaled harshly, rubbing my hands over my face. The motion only made it worse—my fingers brushed the short, alien length of my hair, and my stomach twisted all over again.

“I hate this,” I muttered, my voice low, tight.

Zach didn’t argue. He didn’t tease.

And that—that silence—somehow made it worse.

Because it meant that even he knew there was no taking this back.

I had gone in with a long, familiar mane.

And I had walked out unrecognizable.

And there was nothing I could do to fix it.

The drive to the reunion was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the heater filling the space. The worst of the storm had passed, but the thick blanket of snow covering the streets made every turn feel unsteady, every movement slow and careful. My fingers were clenched tightly in my lap, nails digging into my palms as I stared at my reflection in the darkened car window. The image staring back at me wasn’t mine.

The short, blunt bob sat heavy against my jaw, harsh and unyielding. I had spent years hiding behind long, wavy strands that framed my face softly, giving me something to tuck behind my ears, something to let fall over my shoulders in quiet moments of comfort. But now—now my hair sat, structured and stiff, no softness left. It didn’t fall or move the way it used to. It was just… there.

And I hated it.

The car hit a small bump, jolting me forward slightly, and the freshly shaved nape of my neck brushed against the thick collar of my coat. The sensation sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. God. I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to reach back and touch it again. The last thing I needed was for Zach to notice and start up with his helpful commentary.

He had been unusually quiet, though. Maybe he could tell that I was too on edge to deal with any of his usual teasing. Maybe he knew that if he so much as hinted at a joke, I’d snap. Or maybe he was just waiting—waiting for the real reaction, for the moment I stepped into my grandparents’ house and the rest of my family laid eyes on me.

I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t want to be ready.

But the headlights of my grandfather’s house were already coming into view, their warm, golden glow illuminating the snow-covered driveway. Cars lined the street, familiar ones—relatives who had arrived hours ago, their tires already half-buried in the snowdrifts. Inside, I could see silhouettes moving through the frosted windows, hear the faint murmur of voices and laughter spilling into the cold night air.

Zach pulled into an open spot, shifting the car into park before shutting off the engine. He let out a low whistle. “Man, they’re all here, huh?”

I said nothing.

My stomach was twisting itself into knots, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Zach turned to me, his expression softer than before. “Hey,” he said, nudging my arm lightly. “You gonna be okay?”

I forced myself to nod, even though I wasn’t sure I could get my legs to move.

I had to.

I had to.

I grabbed the door handle, hesitating only for a second before pushing it open. The cold hit instantly, biting through my coat, but I barely felt it. My heart was pounding too hard. My thoughts were moving too fast. Zach slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, stuffing his free hand into his pocket as we made our way toward the front door.

The second he knocked, the voices inside grew louder, footsteps hurrying toward us. Then, the door swung open, and I was immediately engulfed in warmth—both from the house itself and the whirlwind of greetings that followed.

“Amanda! Zach!”

My aunt Lisa was the first to pull us in, her arms wrapping around me in a quick, tight hug before she turned to squeeze Zach. “I was starting to think you two weren’t gonna make it!” she laughed, stepping back to let us inside. “Your mom’s been worried sick!”

The moment I stepped fully into the house, the scent of cinnamon, roasted turkey, and something sweet filled the air. The familiar hum of overlapping conversations surrounded me—family members greeting each other, catching up, sharing stories over glasses of wine and mugs of hot cider. The living room was packed with people, coats draped over the backs of chairs, the fireplace crackling with soft, steady warmth.

It should have been comforting.

But the second I stepped further in, I felt the first pair of eyes land on me.

And then another.

And another.

My aunt Lisa’s expression shifted slightly, her eyes flicking up to my hair for a brief second before she forced a smile. “Wow,” she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too careful. “Look at you.”

The way she said it made my stomach lurch.

I swallowed hard, offering the weakest smile I could muster. “Yeah,” I mumbled, tugging at my coat like it could somehow shield me. “I, uh… got a haircut.”

“No kidding,” a voice chimed in from behind her. Uncle Mike. His eyebrows shot up as he gave me a once-over. “Didn’t even recognize you at first! That’s… different.”

Different.

I knew what that meant.

I hated what that meant.

My grandmother appeared next, bustling in from the kitchen with a dish towel still in hand. The moment she saw me, her lips parted slightly, her eyes widening just enough for me to notice before she smoothed her expression over with a warm smile. “Oh, Amanda, sweetheart,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “You look so grown up.”

She didn’t hate it.

But she didn’t love it either.

I could tell.

The wave of discomfort hit me so hard I wanted to shrink into my coat and disappear.

I barely had time to recover before my mom’s voice cut through the room.

“Amanda?”

I stiffened.

I turned, my heart already racing, and there she was—standing at the edge of the kitchen, her phone still in her hand, her brows drawn together in confusion.

She hadn’t seen me yet. Not really.

She hadn’t noticed.

Not until she stepped closer.

And then—there it was.

The moment she saw the blunt edges of my bob, the weight of my long hair gone, her whole expression shifted.

Her eyes widened slightly, scanning my face, my jaw, the way the cut framed me too sharply, too severely.

And then—just like everyone else—she covered it quickly, smoothing her features into something neutral. “You… cut your hair.”

I forced a smile, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “It’s… different.”

That word again.

I could barely breathe.

For a moment, I thought—maybe that was it. Maybe she’d just leave it at that.

But then she stepped forward.

Then her eyes narrowed.

And then—she really looked.

I felt it the second she saw.

Her gaze flicked downward, just slightly, and in that instant, she noticed what the others hadn’t.

The bob was one thing.

The undercut was another.

Her lips parted slightly, her brows drawing together in real shock. “Amanda.” Her voice was quieter now, lower, laced with something sharper. “Turn around.”

I froze.

The lump in my throat grew tighter.

“I—”

“Turn around,” she repeated, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Every single nerve in my body screamed at me to run.

But my feet didn’t move.

Slowly—so slowly—I turned.

And the second she saw the back of my head, the clipped nape, the bare skin where my hair should have been—her breath hitched.

“Oh my god.”

The room was quieter now. People were listening. Watching.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

She knew.

And she was furious.

For a moment, the room was silent. The kind of silence that stretched unbearably, tightening around me like a vice. I could feel the weight of my mother’s stare pressing against the back of my head, her shock and disapproval hanging thick in the air. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Amanda,” she said, her voice sharp but controlled. “What did you do to your hair?”

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my sleeves. “It’s just a haircut, Mom,” I mumbled, though even to my own ears, it sounded weak.

“Just a—” She let out a breath, running a hand through her own perfectly styled hair, as if trying to make sense of what she was looking at. “Your hair was beautiful. Long. And now—” Her eyes flicked down again to the freshly shaved nape, the sharp, structured bob framing my face.

“Now it’s better,” a voice cut in smoothly from behind her.

My stomach twisted, but this time, it wasn’t with dread.

Aunt Sophia.

She stepped forward from where she had been lingering near the dining table, her expression unreadable at first. But as she got closer, I saw it—the knowing smile, the sharp glint of approval in her eyes. Unlike the others, she didn’t look at me with confusion or quiet horror.

She looked impressed.

Mom turned to her with an exasperated expression. “Sophia, do you see what she’s done?”

“Oh, I see it,” Aunt Sophia said, folding her arms. Her gaze flicked to me, taking in every inch of the drastic change—the way the bob curved sleekly under my jawline, the way the undercut made it look even sharper, more dramatic. A slow smile spread across her lips. “And I love it.”

I blinked.

Mom’s frown deepened. “You love it?”

“Of course I do,” she said, tilting her head as if admiring a masterpiece. “It’s bold. It’s modern. And it suits her perfectly.”

A few murmurs rippled through the room, a mixture of agreement and skepticism. My grandmother, who had been watching quietly, offered a small, hesitant smile. Uncle Mike muttered something under his breath, shaking his head in amusement.

Aunt Sophia, meanwhile, stepped even closer to me, reaching out to run her fingers lightly along the sharp edge of my bob. “Look at this cut,” she said, turning slightly so my mom had no choice but to take it in again. “It’s chic. It’s got structure. And this—” She brushed her fingers against the soft, clipped undercut at my nape, sending a shiver up my spine. “This is fearless.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t feel fearless.

I felt exposed. Raw. Like the weight of my missing hair was still pressing down on me, ghosting over my shoulders even though it was long gone.

But then Aunt Sophia met my eyes, her gaze steady and certain. “Not many people can pull off something like this,” she said. “But you? You own it.”

My pulse stuttered.

Own it?

That wasn’t what I had been doing. I had been suffering through it, regretting every second of it, wishing I could go back and undo everything. But the way she said it—like this wasn’t just some mistake, like this wasn’t just something I had to endure, but something powerful—it made something shift inside me.

Something small.

Something uncertain.

But something real.

Mom still wasn’t convinced. “Her hair was—”

“Her hair is,” Aunt Sophia corrected smoothly. “And this cut? It makes a statement. It says confidence. It says she’s not afraid to take risks.” She smiled at me again, something almost conspiratorial in her expression. “And that is something to be proud of.”

For the first time since walking into the house, I felt like I could breathe.

The room hadn’t magically warmed to the idea. There were still skeptical glances, still the occasional side-eye from a distant cousin or an uncle who didn’t know what to make of it. But there was also something else now—something solid.

A sense that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Maybe, just maybe, I could learn to live with it.

Maybe, just maybe, I could even like it.

Aunt Sophia gave me one last approving nod before stepping back, smoothing a hand over her own sleek, shoulder-length hair. “Now,” she said, turning back toward the dining table. “Are we going to keep gawking at Amanda’s fabulous new look, or are we going to eat before the food gets cold?”

The tension in the room broke. Someone laughed. A few people turned back to their conversations. The noise of the reunion picked up again, the moment slowly fading into the background.

Mom still wasn’t happy.

I could tell from the way she pressed her lips together, from the way she kept glancing at me like she wanted to say more.

But she didn’t.

And that was enough.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear—only to realize there was barely enough to tuck. The movement felt wrong, unnatural, like my hands hadn’t caught up to the fact that things were different now.

And they were.

Different.

But maybe, just maybe… different wasn’t so bad.

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