Oliver Carrera
Sunlight, liquid gold on cobblestones, painted Skylar’s apartment window. She traced the lines of her new life in Nice, the scent of lavender and salt air a constant companion. Her master’s degree a distant hum, the immediate future promised a modeling gig – a quick shoot, simple, they’d said. Her long, dark hair, a waterfall down her back, always drew admiring glances. Today, it would be art.
The salon, tucked between a gelato stand and a boutique, hummed with quiet efficiency. The stylist, a woman with sharp, kind eyes and a cascade of glossy black hair, greeted her. “*Bonjour, mademoiselle*.” Her voice, soft as brushed silk.
Skylar settled onto the plush chair. The stylist draped a soft, white towel around her neck, tucking its ends into her collar. A deep basin awaited. Warm water, scented with jasmine, ran over Skylar’s scalp. Fingers, deft and firm, massaged, a sensual rhythm that lulled her. She closed her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips. The stylist’s hands moved with practiced grace, rinsing, conditioning, a quiet hum emanating from her throat.
Back in the chair, a crisp nylon cape, cool against her skin, replaced the towel, secured by a neck apron guide. Skylar blinked, looking at her reflection. “Just a trim, yes?” Her voice, a little too bright.
The stylist smiled, a flash of white. “Oh, much more than a trim, *chérie*. Avant-garde. Bold.” She produced a pair of shears, glinting under the salon lights. *Snip. Snip. Snip.*
Skylar’s breath hitched. Each cut, precise and swift, took inches, then feet. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The long strands, her pride, fell to the floor like discarded ribbons. “Wait, what are you doing?” she managed, her voice a thin thread.
“Creating,” the stylist replied, her eyes alight with artistic fervor. The shears worked with a furious rhythm. Her hair, now a choppy, uneven mess, barely touched her shoulders.
Next, a brush, followed by a straight razor. Skylar flinched as it moved across her forehead. Her reflection showed a hairline pushed back, widening her forehead by an inch, stark and unnatural. Then, the eyebrows. The fine hairs vanished, leaving smooth, bare skin.
“No!” Skylar choked, tears pricking her eyes.
The stylist ignored her, grabbing a tattoo gun. Two high, comical arches appeared where her natural brows once lay, drawn in a harsh, dark line. She dabbed a chemical solution onto Skylar’s remaining hair. A burning sensation, then a metallic tang filled the air. Her dark locks lightened, turning a stark, brassy blonde.
“Ow!” Skylar cried, her scalp protesting.
“Almost done, *ma belle*,” the stylist murmured, then wrapped tiny rods around the bleached strands. A machine hummed to life, heating the rods. The smell of burning hair filled the air. When the rods came off, tight, unnatural curls sprang from her scalp, a frizzled halo.
Skylar stared at the stranger in the mirror. Short, bleached, permed beyond recognition. Shaved hairline. Drawn-on, ridiculous eyebrows. Her face, usually framed by dark waves, now looked alien, exposed. A guttural sound escaped her throat. “No, no, no!” she shrieked, clutching at her head.
The stylist stepped back, admiring her work. “*Magnifique*! A true transformation!”
Skylar sprang from the chair, the cape falling to the floor. She ran, past the startled receptionist, out into the sun-drenched street. The glare felt harsher, the world mocking. Her reflection stared back from a shop window – a clownish figure, not Skylar. A laugh, sharp and broken, bubbled from her lips. She ran faster, the absurd curls bouncing, the drawn-on brows arching in perpetual surprise. This was not the art she’d imagined. This was a beginning. A new canvas, violently scrubbed clean. And for the first time in her life, Skylar felt truly, terrifyingly, free.
