Sommer’s Impulsive Haircut – Part 1

Sommer sat in her car, parked at the far edge of the dimly lit lot, the engine silent but the faint scent of spilled coffee lingering in the air — a reminder of her chaotic morning. Her shift had dragged on, one of those relentless days where every task felt both laborious and simultaneously pointless. The November darkness had crept in before 5 pm, a stark contrast to the golden evenings of just a few weeks ago. Now, the dreary chill of late fall pressed against the windows, and Sommer had been sitting there for twenty minutes, trying to muster the motivation to drive home.

The glow of her phone screen lit her face as she scrolled through Instagram, mindlessly swiping past photos of latte art, gym selfies, and sunset-drenched vacation snapshots. Her fingers, long and elegant, tapped absently against the screen until one post stopped her cold.

The image was striking: a polished brunette with razor-sharp cheekbones and a daring short bob that barely grazed her jawline. The caption beneath it read: “Oops. Someone got ahold of the scissors ✂️✂️✂️”. Sommer bit her lip, staring at the post for a moment too long.

At 5’11” with an athletic build, Sommer was taller than most women she knew. Her lean, toned frame, honed from years of volleyball, running and swimming, gave her an air of confidence and strength, even when she didn’t feel it. Long, smooth legs carried her with a graceful stride, adding to her commanding presence. Her green eyes, framed by long lashes, were piercing yet softened by the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Her hair, though — her hair was the centerpiece.

Thick waves framed her face with effortless elegance, soft layers accentuating her high cheekbones and graceful neck. When loose, the rich chestnut strands tumbled past her shoulders, brushing her collarbones like a cascading waterfall. Even tied back in her signature high ponytail, the sheer volume and bounce drew compliments. It wasn’t uncommon for strangers to stop her mid-conversation just to say, “Your hair is incredible.”

Yet lately, that same hair felt like a weight she couldn’t shake. Sitting in the quiet of her car, the restlessness she’d been battling for months crept in again. She felt stuck, tethered to an endless loop of routine — morning runs on autopilot, the same understated wardrobe, and a hairstyle that hadn’t changed since high school. It was as if her long hair was a relic of someone she used to be, not the person she wanted to be.

She sighed, locking her phone, and leaned her head back against the seat. Outside, the evening was still and starless, the streetlights casting dull amber halos. Sommer reached up and touched the end of her ponytail, feeling its smoothness, the slight curl where the elastic had held it all day. It was familiar. Predictable. Safe.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind: I could never cut it.

Then, as if summoned by some unseen force, a bolder, more startling thought followed, hitting her with the clarity of a lightning strike: I need to cut it.

The idea didn’t feel like her own — more like a voice from deep within, speaking a truth she hadn’t realized until now. It wasn’t a whim. It was a command. Urgent. All-consuming. I need to cut it tonight.

Sommer exhaled slowly, the weight of the thought sinking in as she gazed out the windshield. The restless hum in her chest had transformed into something else — excitement, maybe even exhilaration. She reached into the center console, pulled out a small tin, and rolled a joint between her fingers.

A few slow puffs later, the haze settled over her, softening the edges of the world but sharpening the focus in her mind. The voice grew louder, insistent. Her fingers twitched, her heart raced, and yet an unexpected calm swept through her. Sommer flicked the joint out the window, started the car, and pulled onto the empty street. She didn’t know exactly where she was going, but for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel stuck. It wasn’t like Sommer to act impulsively, but she had decided to roll with it this time. It was a freeing feeling.

She pulled into a parking lot and stepped out of the car. The strip mall in front of her was far from glamorous, a mix of low-end shops that clashed with the pristine suburban streets of the town where she lived. Sandwiched between a vape store and a pizza joint was Nadia’s Hair Studio, its neon sign that read Walk-ins Welcome flickering faintly. It wasn’t the kind of place she usually went to for haircuts — her stylist was in the city, a posh salon with glass walls and perfectly dressed staff. But tonight, Sommer wanted something different.

The door jingled as she stepped inside, and the smell of hair dye and stale tobacco hit her nose. The salon was dimly lit, with faded posters of hairstyles that screamed early 2000s and cracked vinyl chairs lining the walls. Behind the desk stood a woman who immediately commanded attention.

Nadia was tall and broad-shouldered, with platinum-blonde hair slicked back into a very tight bun. She was attractive and likely in her mid-thirties, though the lines etched into her face hinted at a life that had weathered her beyond her years. The deep creases around her mouth betrayed the habits of a heavy smoker. Her light blue eyes flicked over Sommer, appraising her with a calculated intensity. When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp, with a thick Ukranian accent. “You want haircut?”

Sommer hesitated but nodded. “Yes. A… a bob. Just below my chin.”

Nadia waved a hand toward the chair without another word, her movements brisk and businesslike. Sommer settled in, her long legs awkwardly folding under the old chair as Nadia draped a worn cape over her shoulders, snapping it tightly around her neck.

Seeing her reflection in the mirror gave Sommer pause. Her thick ponytail was so striking against the cream-colored cape, the silky chestnut strands almost gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Her face was still framed by the soft waves that had escaped the elastic. Am I really going to do this? she wondered, but it was too late to second guess her decision. It was happening.

Nadia loomed over her, so close that Sommer could catch the scent of cigarette smoke clinging to her breath. “How short you want?” Nadia asked, her tone impatient.

Sommer swallowed. “Just below my chin,” she repeated, lifting a hand to gesture where she meant.

Nadia’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing as she grabbed Sommer’s ponytail in her strong hands. Unceremoniously, she reached for her shears and brought them to the base of the ponytail, just above the elastic.

“Wait—” Sommer started, but the first harsh snip echoed through the salon, silencing her.

The blades closed with ruthless efficiency, and Sommer gasped as she felt the weight of her ponytail vanish in a matter of seconds. Nadia held up the severed length — a thick, shiny mass of auburn hair that looked almost surreal dangling in her hand.

“Much better,” Nadia said flatly, tossing it onto the counter without fanfare. Sommer stared at the mirror, her reflection suddenly unfamiliar, a far cry from the tidy ponytail she’d walked in with. Her hair, now jagged and uneven, barely brushed her shoulders. Nadia wasn’t finished.

With swift, commanding movements, Nadia grabbed her scissors again, her grip firm and unyielding. She yanked a section of hair at the back of Sommer’s head, stretching it taut before slicing through it in one decisive motion. The sharp tension vanished as the severed strands slid down the cape, pooling lifelessly at her feet. Sommer couldn’t help but notice how grimy the linoleum tiles looked — a detail she hadn’t paid attention to until now — but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. More hair fell, thick chunks tumbling from her shoulders and onto the floor.

The snip, snip, snip of the scissors echoed in her ears like an unrelenting metronome, each cut sharper and more deliberate than the last. Sommer’s stomach churned as she watched the strands fall away, each one feeling like it carried a piece of her confidence with it.

“I… I didn’t want to go this short,” Sommer stammered, her voice shaking.

“Trust me,” Nadia said curtly, tilting Sommer’s head forward without waiting for permission. “I know what looks good.”

The clippers roared to life, and Sommer flinched as Nadia pressed them firmly against the back of her neck. The vibration buzzed against her skin, and she felt the cool air hit her nape as the razor sheared away everything in its path. She felt helpless, paralyzed in Nadia’s chair. More hair tumbled down the cape, the once-thick waves now reduced to lifeless clumps on the floor.

“Stop,” Sommer whispered, but her voice was barely audible over the buzz of the clippers.

Nadia’s expression didn’t change. She continued to work methodically, combing and cutting with military precision. The scissors snipped relentlessly, shaping the remaining hair into a sharp, angled bob that barely reached past Sommer’s top lip.

Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip, trying to hold them back, but it was no use. A tear slid down her cheek, quickly followed by another.

When Nadia finally stepped back, Sommer stared at her reflection in disbelief. The cut was severe and much shorter than what she had asked for. Her nape was shaved high and tight, the crisp line of the bob creating a stark contrast to her long neck.

Sommer sat frozen, her hands trembling. When Nadia finally pulled the cape away, the last of Sommer’s shorn strands scattered to the floor, leaving her feeling naked and vulnerable. She barely recognized herself. Her once-thick, luxurious hair was gone, replaced by a cut that felt more like a punishment than a style.

“It suits you,” Nadia declared, patting Sommer on the shoulder. “You’ll see. And if you really don’t like, don’t worry — it grows back soon.”

Sommer didn’t respond. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the piles of her hair scattered around the chair like the remnants of a past self. A shiver ran through her as Nadia briskly swept up the glossy strands. With cold finality, she pushed Sommer’s discarded locks into the dustpan and tossed them into the trash without a second thought.

Sommer paid quickly and stepped outside, the cold November wind harshly biting at her freshly exposed neck. Back in her car, Sommer stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, touching the sharp ends of her new bob. It wasn’t the chic transformation she had imagined — it was harsh, raw, and humiliating. Her heart sank as she drove home, and she tried not to think about how her coworkers would react when they saw her in the morning.

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