Surprize Me

He stepped into the salon just after four, running a hand through his overgrown hair. The top still swept back like he intended, but the sides had filled in too much — the once-sharp undercut now looked soft, indecisive. He wanted that edge back.

The place was sleek and minimal, all white tile and matte black chairs. A few people were chatting quietly at the front desk. Music played low over hidden speakers — some moody synth beat he couldn’t place.

The stylist called his name.

She was tall and lean with silver hair cropped sharp at the jaw and a collection of delicate piercings in one ear. Her name tag simply read Remy.

“Alright,” she said, gesturing to the chair. “What are we doing today?”

He dropped into the seat, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Undercut’s grown out. Want it sharp again on the sides. Keep the top long — just style it back.”

“Easy enough,” she nodded, wrapping the cape around his shoulders. “Want anything fun? Color? Accessories?”

He half-smiled. “surprize me.”

Remy’s hand paused for a beat on the cape’s snap, then continued. “Are you sure about that?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Go for it. Long week. Shake things up.”

Her grin was subtle but unmistakable. “No take backs.”

The buzz of the clippers came first, familiar and grounding. She faded the undercut high, clean, leaving just enough to blend into the crown. When the cool air touched the newly bare skin above his neck, he shivered.

Then came the gloves. The brush. The foils.

He tilted his head slightly. “Color?”

“Shh,” she said, half-laughing. “You said surprize.”

He let her work. The scent of bleach was unmistakable. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t question.

When she rinsed it out, her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary, massaging his scalp, combing the soft, damp hair back into a sculpted wave. She blow-dried, teased the crown, added something to boost shine.

But the chair hadn’t turned yet. He still hadn’t seen.

He heard a click.
Another.
Metal.

Then the sudden pressure — not painful, but sharp — just beneath his right earlobe.
And once more, in the lobe of the other ear.

“Wait—what is that?” he asked, eyes still closed.

“Accessories,” she said calmly. “You did say surprize me.”

He opened his eyes just as the chair spun toward the mirror.

He blinked. Swallowed.

The reflection didn’t quite look like the man who had walked in.

The top of his hair was now a pale, ashy blonde — styled high and back into a sculpted crest, gleaming under the lights. The buzzed sides and back were stark black against his pale scalp, a deliberate contrast that made the top seem almost surreal, like it had been set there with intention rather than grown.

Then he saw the earrings.

One in each ear — slim, elegant gold hoops.

His fingers shot up to touch them, confusion growing.

“They’re not clip-ons,” Remy said, her voice lower now, almost tender. “Didn’t think you wanted halfway.”

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He looked again. The hairstyle was bold, androgynous — nearly feminine. His cheekbones looked sharper than before. His neck, exposed by the high fade, looked longer, more vulnerable. And his ears, newly adorned, seemed to demand attention he wasn’t used to receiving.

The effect was… deliberate.

“Didn’t expect this,” he muttered.

“You said surprize me,” Remy replied gently, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You didn’t say stop me.”

He didn’t quite know what to feel. He looked like someone different — not just styled, but transformed.

He touched the side of his head again, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his undercut, then the cool metal in his ear.

“Do you want me to take them out?” Remy asked, quieter now, but still watching him closely.

He hesitated.
Then: “Yes.”

Remy blinked. Then let out a low, amused laugh as she leaned against the chair.

“Too bad,” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “You said surprize me.”

He turned toward her, half in protest, half in awe.

“I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I’d take you seriously?” she cut in, folding her arms. “Or that surprize me meant something safe? This isn’t a costume. It suits you.”

He glanced back at the mirror. Still him — but not how he ever pictured himself.

https://imgur.com/a/YFJq0rp

“…Can you at least fix it?” he asked. “Make it less… androgynous?”

Remy smiled, slow and deliberate. “Less androgynous? Sure. I can do that. A bit of dye. A slight trim. Adjust the piercings.”

That sounded good. Grounding. He nodded.

She didn’t move. Just held his gaze in the mirror a moment longer, as if savoring the silence.

Then she turned away — still smiling — and reached for her tools.

–

Remy turned back to him with a grin, snapping on a fresh guard.

The clippers buzzed to life again — louder this time, closer.

He flinched as she pressed them firmly to his nape, carving downward with practiced precision. The faint warmth of the blades traced clean lines across his skin.

“What’re you—?”

“Relax,” she murmured, focused. “Taking the back and sides down. From an eighth to a sixteenth. Trust me — it’ll help.”

He said nothing, but his shoulders stiffened as more hair fell away. She moved swiftly, efficiently, tapering the base of his skull until the undercut was sharper than ever. Then she shifted to his ears, flicking the clippers in a curved, deliberate arc that left the skin behind each lobe startlingly bare. He felt the exposed air more than he saw anything.

Next came the fine detailing — without asking, she adjusted the hairline at his nape, rounding it delicately. She shaped around his ears too, not just trimming — sculpting. Deliberate. Feminine.

Remy was already smearing something cool and chemical across the crown of his head.

“Wait—dye again?”

“Of course,” she said breezily. “Still fixing it, remember?”

He blinked. “You mean the blonde?”

“You said you didn’t want androgynous. So now we’re fixing that.”

That shut him up. He sighed and nodded, resigning himself to the process.

“Good,” she said. “Because your brows are next. A bit unruly.”

He blinked. “My brows?”

She didn’t wait. The razor buzzed again — smaller, finer — followed by the snip of sharp scissors. He felt the tug, the precise trimming above each eye. She didn’t just clean them up. She reshaped them.

Arches. Thinner. Smooth.

“Perfect,” she said softly, brushing away stray hairs. “Much better.”

By the time she rinsed out the dye and started blow-drying the top again, the mirror was still angled away. He hadn’t seen a thing. But something felt different. Lighter. Sleeker.

“Almost done,” she said, unplugging the dryer. “Just have to adjust your earrings to make the look less androgynous.”

He exhaled in relief. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He felt her fingers again — but instead of removing anything, she pressed something cold against his earlobe.

Click.

Then again.

Click.

Then higher.

Pressure.

“What are you doing?” he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

She didn’t even glance at him. “Adjusting. I’m making it less androgynous, remember?”

“That’s more earrings!”

“Exactly,” she said with a wicked little grin. “So I figured more feminine was what you meant.”

He turned toward her, stunned. “You pierced them again?”

“You said fix it.”

Then she finally turned the chair.

And he saw.

The top of his hair was now a soft, icy lavender — pale with a sheen of silver. It glimmered under the overhead light, swept high and back into a sculpted crest. The shape made his face look more angular, more striking. Almost unreal.

The sides were shaved nearly to the skin, a charcoal grey stubble shadowing the pale scalp. The contrast was jarring — intentional. The undercut made the top look almost like a crown, hovering impossibly atop his head.

https://imgur.com/a/CYcbee0

Then the earrings.

Two in each lobe: one a small, delicate stud; the other a thin gold hoop. And one more, higher on the cartilage — a tiny glinting gem that caught the light as he moved.

Real piercings. Real metal.

Not just groomed. Curated.

Remy leaned in, gently tugging one of the hoops as if to emphasize her point.

“Besides… they’re in,” she said softly. “You can’t just undo this. Might as well get used to seeing yourself this way.”

He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away.

And deep down — beneath the heat of embarrassment, beneath the hum of disbelief — was a tiny, uncomfortable thrill.

Maybe she was right.

He looked back at the mirror once more, at the shimmering lavender sheen catching the light, at the jewelry that now felt like a part of him, not just decoration.

His throat was dry.

He was still him.

Just… not the version he recognized.