The Barbershop Bet

“Okay, okay, my turn!” Clara laughed, spinning her phone around so the camera faced her. “I’m about to do the cinnamon shot.”

We were crowded into the booth at the edge of the food court, right near the railing that overlooked the lower level. It was Saturday, and this was our thing—lunch, shopping, and hanging out, but today we decided to play a game of truth or dare, and it’s safe to say it went way too far.

Clara unscrewed the tiny bottle of cinnamon oil we’d picked up from that weird little spice kiosk, dumped it into her mouth, and immediately choked.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, fanning her face as we howled with laughter.

“You look like a dragon,” I wheezed, tears forming in my eyes.

“Your turn, Mia,” Clara croaked, still fanning her tongue. “Better be a good one.”

Mia gave us a dramatic bow, then turned and marched to the pretzel stand. Our dare for her had been simple: flirt with the guy behind the counter until he offered her something free. We watched in awe as she worked her magic—cute giggles, hair flips, the whole act. Two minutes later, she returned triumphant with a warm pretzel.

“You guys are the worst,” she said through a mouthful. “But also… this is delicious.”

That left one person.

Me.

“Alright, Kate,” Clara said, resting her chin in her hands, all sweet and smug. “Your dare.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m scared already.”

“You should be,” Mia grinned.

Clara pointed over the railing to the lower level. “See that barbershop down there?”

I leaned forward. It was tucked away past the escalators, next to a tattoo place. Black walls, glass front, sharp and modern. A little intimidating.

“You’re going in,” Clara said. “Ask for a haircut.”

“What?!” I laughed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You don’t have to get it cut,” Mia added, nudging me. “Just pretend. Sit in the chair. Play along.”

I folded my arms. “Why a barbershop?”

“Because you have Disney princess hair,” Clara said matter-of-factly. “You strut around like a shampoo commercial. It’ll be hilarious.”

I touched a strand of my long blonde hair out of instinct. It had taken me years to grow it out to this length—shiny, thick, and falling nearly to my waist.

“I’m not cutting it,” I warned.

“You don’t have to,” Clara said. “Just walk in. Play the part. We’ll be watching from up here.”

They were already pushing me up and out of the booth, still giggling.

“Fine,” I said. “But you two are dead if they touch my hair.”

“Love you too,” Mia called as I stepped onto the escalator.

My heart started beating faster with every step downward. The buzz of the mall dulled behind me. That shop really did look cool up close—sleek, glassy, and silent. Inside, I saw a single figure sweeping hair from the floor. Then, as if sensing me, she looked up.

She was striking.

Tall, fit, dressed in black from head to toe. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek, low bun, and her cheekbones could cut glass. She had this calm confidence, like she owned the place. I froze for a moment at the entrance, feeling like prey stepping into a lion’s den.

She looked me up and down, then raised an eyebrow.

“Haircut?” she asked. Her voice was low and smooth, with a hint of something playful behind it.

I swallowed and nodded, my voice caught in my throat.

She gestured to the chair with her chin.

“Sit.”

And somehow, I did.

I sat stiffly in the barber chair, suddenly feeling way too small for how big it was. The leather was cold under my legs, the metal armrests hard and unforgiving. I expected some kind of greeting, maybe a casual “what are we doing today?” or a polite little chat about my hair.

But there was nothing.

The barberette moved behind me without a word, roughly gathering my long, blonde hair in one hand, twisting it into a thick coil. I winced as she tugged it tight against my scalp and then clipped it high with a huge plastic claw. The tension prickled at my scalp. My eyes flicked up to the mirror—my reflection looked like a captured version of myself. Restrained. Prepped.

Then came the cape.

With a practised flick, the black cape unfurled like a raven’s wing and swept through the air. It floated for a moment, then dropped over me like a curtain, swallowing me whole. She fastened it tight—really tight—around my neck, the snap of the collar echoing in my ears.

I swallowed hard. My throat felt like it didn’t have room to move.

I should have run. Right there, before the cape went on, I could’ve bolted. Laughed it off. Said it was a joke. Blamed my friends. But now I was trapped, locked under layers of fabric and pressure and silence.

The cape was huge—thick and heavy, draping over me completely, from shoulders to toes. My arms were pinned underneath it, tucked uselessly in my lap. Only my head was left exposed, framed like a display. A single blonde head sticking out of a sea of dark fabric.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, the barberette released the clip. My thick blonde hair came tumbling down, crashing onto the cape with a heavy swish. My long, golden hair spilled out over the cape, a waterfall of shine and soft waves. It looked so out of place against the cape’s black surface, almost glowing under the bright lights. I’d always loved the way it looked—how it caught the sun, how it made people stare. And now it was just… there. On show. Waiting.

She reached for a brush and started working it through my hair, fast and rough. No gentle strokes. No compliments about the length or how soft it was. Just business. She grabbed thick handfuls and yanked the bristles down from roots to ends, untangling it like it didn’t matter how it felt.

I winced.

My hair—my pride—was in someone else’s hands now. Literally.

The shop itself was nearly empty. Just two other chairs, one of them still with scattered clippings around the base. A soft hum from the overhead lights buzzed in the background. There were a few old barbershop posters on the wall—faded diagrams of short men’s cuts, styles I’d never even considered. And behind the mirrors, black tile gleamed like polished stone, reflecting me back in fragmented pieces.

In the mirror, I watched her. Sharp jaw. Calm eyes. No expression.

She didn’t say a thing. Just brushed, again and again, as if getting a feel for what she was working with. Her hand pressed firmly against the back of my head, tilting it forward a bit. My hair poured over my shoulders like a golden curtain.

It looked so vulnerable like that.

From where I was sitting, I could see just beyond the shop’s window. Up on the second floor, through the glass railing, I spotted Clara and Mia standing by the edge, laughing and filming with their phones.

I wanted to scream. Wave. Call for backup.

But I didn’t. I stayed frozen, heart pounding.

The brushing stopped.

I sat still beneath the cape, my breathing shallow, every nerve on edge. The air felt heavier now, like it was waiting for something. I looked up, catching a glimpse of the barberette in the mirror—stoic, unreadable, her fingers still loosely holding the brush.

And then, without warning, she placed one hand on the back of the chair and spun me to the right.

The sudden motion startled me, the cape shifting across my lap with a swish as the chair rotated. No longer could I see myself. No longer could I see her. Just a wide view of the mall through the front glass, where shoppers milled around, oblivious to my silent panic.

The chair settled with a soft click.

I was now facing the wall to the right—no mirror, no reflection, no escape.

And then, I heard it.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Metallic and crisp. She was snapping her scissors open and closed just behind me, testing the bite, teasing the silence.

I clenched my fingers under the cape.

Then, I felt it—her cool fingers sliding through the long, soft hair on the left side of my head. She gathered a section, firm but unhurried, and lifted it away from my scalp.

And without a word…

Schhrrrkk!

A deep, gritty crunch as the blades sheared right through it.

I gasped—my lips parting, breath catching. It was like something inside me had been severed along with it.

The first lock fell forward over my shoulder, a thick golden rope that landed across the black cape, a stark contrast like spilled honey.

Schhrrkk! Schhrrkk!

She kept going.

Long, gleaming strands dropped in chunks—some across my chest, some over my arm, and others silently drifting to the floor. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look. All I could do was feel.

Feel the cold air kiss the now-exposed skin behind my ear.

Feel the lightness creeping up one side of my head.

Feel her fingers comb through what remained, grip another section, and cut it away without hesitation.

There was nothing gentle about it. No slow “are you ready?” No soft warning. This was deliberate. Efficient. Final.

The blades chewed through my hair with mechanical rhythm, cutting high and close, ignoring shape or preservation. She moved my head slightly with her fingers—tilting it, adjusting it—never asking, just repositioning me like I was a canvas, and she the artist.

I stared ahead, eyes locked on the tile floor, trying not to cry. Not out of sadness, exactly. Out of the complete loss of control. The vulnerability.

More hair slid from my shoulder.

Another thick lock landed in my lap, then slid off the cape like it had never belonged to me.

Then she nudged my chin up—firmly.

I was still facing away from the mirror, still unable to see what remained, but I felt it. I could feel the unevenness, the weight imbalance, the coolness where hair had once hung thick and heavy.

She began working closer to my crown, snipping high up, blades grazing close to the scalp now.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

The sound was constant. Sharp. Ruthless.

Each cut a punctuation mark in a sentence I hadn’t written.

Stray strands tickled my neck as they fell. Some clung to the cape, static pulling them like ghosts of what used to be.

And yet… I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even lift a hand.

The cape held me in place like a spell—tucked so tightly around my neck that it felt like a collar. Like a contract I hadn’t signed, but was bound to.

My mouth was dry. My chest tight.

I wondered if my friends were still watching from across the mall.

I wondered if they were laughing.

But mostly, I wondered how I’d look when she was done.

Because I knew one thing for certain—this wasn’t going to be a trim. Not with the way she moved. Not with the amount of hair already pooling at my feet.

The scissors paused.

The absence of sound was more deafening than the snipping. I sat motionless, hair already in heavy golden heaps across my lap and the floor below, lips pressed into a tight line. I couldn’t tell what I looked like. I hadn’t seen myself since she’d spun the chair.

Then, without a word, she shifted again.

Her hand gripped the side of the chair as she turned me further to the right, until I faced the back wall of the shop. I could now see the bench where people waited—though it was empty—and a coat hook by the corner, dust dancing in the air. The atmosphere felt eerily still, as if the world outside had stopped to watch this.

That’s when I felt it.

A sharp tug at the back of my scalp. My head was yanked slightly backwards as her fingers gripped a fistful of long hair at my crown. My neck strained under the pull, and I let out the smallest gasp.

She didn’t slow down.

Schhhrrkk. Schhrkkk. Snick.

More of my hair was lopped away, falling onto my shoulders like discarded silk. It slid down the cape in smooth, glimmering sheets, coming to rest in my lap or slipping off entirely to the floor.

The clippers hadn’t even come out yet—this was still just scissors.

The pulling continued. She kept tugging sections of hair out and up, hacking them off with mechanical ease. She worked fast, confidently, like she’d done this a hundred times before. My head tilted from side to side in her grip, always directed, never asked.

Then—a push.

My head was tilted forward firmly, chin nearly against my chest. The cape pulled snug at my throat, and I was staring into the fabric folds in my lap when I felt cold air rush at the nape of my neck.

A second later:

Snip. Schnip. Snick.

She was working her way up the back of my head now, removing what had once reached mid-back in mere seconds. The sound of each lock being sliced away echoed in my ears like a drumbeat. I could feel tiny hairs brushing against my skin—shorter, rougher—proof that the length was gone.

Hair rained past my shoulders. My lap was full of it. I looked like I’d been caught in a golden storm.

She combed close, fingers running quick over my nape as she lifted and sheared, lifted and sheared. There was no gentle sweep or styling to it—just blunt, decisive motions.

My scalp tingled with every pass.

And just when I thought it might be over—

She turned me again.

Another push of the chair sent me further to the right, now facing the side wall—and I saw a pile of blonde locks already swept into the corner. My pile. I stared at it in disbelief.

Her hand grabbed the last remaining length—a thick chunk of hair just above my right ear that had somehow survived the earlier cuts.

Not for long.

Without hesitation:

Schhhrrkkk.

The blades chewed it clean through, and the final curtain of golden hair dropped to my shoulder, then slid onto the cape.

Gone.

She combed back over the side she’d just finished, checking for strays, snipping at anything that dared to stand out. My head was turned slightly again. Nudged. Adjusted. Never spoken to. She was still in full control, and I was still… silent beneath her.

I could feel the new shape of my head. The air moved differently. My skin prickled where it had never been exposed before.

This wasn’t a haircut anymore.

It was a transformation.

And I had no idea what I looked like.

Only that I would never be the same again.

The chair creaked faintly under me as the barberette stepped back for the first time in what felt like ages.

Her hands ran rough through what was left of my hair—short, uneven layers now jutting from my scalp like the aftermath of a storm.

“Bulk’s out of the way,” she muttered, casually, like this had just been the prep.

She gave the top of my head a brisk ruffle, and I felt the choppy remains flick against my skin. It wasn’t playful. It was inspecting her canvas. Testing the length. Measuring what was left to tame.

I stared down.

At the floor.

At my lap.

At the massive pile of golden hair covering both like snowfall. It didn’t feel real. That used to be mine. My pride. Thick, long, luscious waves that had always drawn compliments from strangers. It was just… gone.

And I was still sitting there, swaddled in a heavy black cape like a prisoner. Only my head exposed. Only my thoughts racing.

Then I heard it.

Click.

A plastic guard snapped into place.

Brrrrzzzzzz.

The clippers roared to life, sharp and hungry.

My eyes widened slightly, and I saw it—just out of the corner of my eye—the barberette lifting the machine, testing it in her hand. She gave it a flick of her wrist and rolled her shoulders like she was warming up.

I barely had time to breathe before her hand was on me again.

She tilted my head to the left—not gently, either. Firm, unflinching. Her fingers pressed behind my ear, guiding my skull where she wanted it.

The buzzing drew closer.

Then—

WhrrrZZZHHKKK.

The clippers met the side of my head with a shudder. I felt the vibration straight through my skull as they dug through the uneven layers she’d left behind.

Hair clumps flew again.

It was different now. The scissors had been shocking, but this… this was final.

The clippers didn’t slice—they devoured.

She worked quickly, clearing a path right above my ear, then lifting the clippers again and pressing them firmly upward, flicking out at the top. I could feel the warmth of the motor, the pressure of her palm guiding my head, keeping it still like I was just another canvas.

I couldn’t look in the mirror—still facing the back wall—but I imagined what it looked like. The long, soft locks replaced by harsh, clipped bristles. A rough stubble-like texture where my silky hair had been.

The clippers continued their journey.

She ran them again and again over the same spot, ensuring it was even. Precise. Ruthless.

There was no hesitation.

Just the sound.

Whrrrrzzhkk.
Whrrrrrrzzz.
Flick. Whrrrrzz.

She was working her way around the back now. I felt her fingertips tilt my chin down again, pushing my head toward my chest. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t. The cape held me like a harness, and her presence behind me was absolute.

The buzzing reached the nape of my neck. Tiny hairs danced and clung to my skin as the clippers hummed upward, fading away what little length had remained. I blinked hard, my eyes stinging.

The clippers hummed steadily behind me, but she wasn’t done. Not even close.

Without a word, the barberette moved beside me again. Her palm pressed firmly against the crown of my head, tilting it down with a little more force than before. My chin met my chest, and all I could see was the thick cape stretching out around me like a tarp—one littered with strands of my golden hair.

Then she shifted the chair.

Whirr-clunk. A lever snapped beneath the seat, and suddenly, I was rotated left again—now facing the back wall of the barbershop, away from the main entrance.

I could feel her presence behind me. The clippers got louder again, almost menacing.

And then they met my nape.

BzzzzzzzZZZTT.

She drove them upward with mechanical precision, shearing through the soft hair at the base of my neck. The sensation was intense—raw. My skin felt exposed and bare in their wake, cool air rushing to meet the freshly revealed skin.

The buzzing moved again—another stroke up the back of my head, her other hand guiding me where she needed. She wasn’t delicate. She was in charge.

Hair fell in chunks, some sliding down the cape, others clinging to the neckline or fluttering through the air like feathers.

She worked methodically, carving out the shape with pure muscle memory. The clippers moved in arcs, tugging ever so slightly as they scraped closer to the scalp, fading the sides into submission.

Then came the click of the chair lever again.

She spun me again, back toward the window wall—and the view beyond the glass.

I didn’t want to look, but I did.

Across the wide corridor of the mall, beyond the glass façade, I caught sight of them.

My friends.

Huddled near the food court railing. Watching. Laughing. Recording.

Phones held up, eyes wide with disbelief and gleeful shock. One of them actually waved.

My cheeks flushed with heat as I sat motionless under the cape, being shaved like a doll, unable to react, unable to speak. I tried to glance away but—

“Stay still,” came the low command from behind.

And with that, the barberette placed her hand firmly on the side of my head and tilted it right, baring the left side of my scalp once more.

The clippers roared back to life, and I could hear the sound changing with each stroke—lower tones as they bit through heavier hair near the crown, sharper zips near the temple. The sides were vanishing into uniform stubble.

More hair tumbled down my shoulder. Some of it slid into my lap. I watched it fall, my stomach twisting with each soft thud.

I couldn’t see what I looked like now—still facing the window, away from the mirror—but I imagined it: the sides of my head clipped harsh and short, the back buzzed to nothing, and only the top still untouched. A strange, uneven contrast.

The worst part?

I couldn’t tell if it was almost over or just beginning.

I could feel the chair lock into place as the barberette’s hands found their way to my jaw once more, forcing my head backward with gentle yet firm pressure. The soft fabric of the cape tightened around me, a constant reminder of what was happening, of what I couldn’t escape.

As my head tilted back, I caught a glimpse of Mia and Clara through the window across the shop. I saw them—still standing there, phones in hand, their laughter rising in the air like a high-pitched melody I couldn’t escape. They were still there, watching, recording everything, and I couldn’t help but feel small, vulnerable, exposed.

The barberette was still, unmoving, as I stared at them for just a second longer before she turned my head with calculated force. The clippers buzzed and clicked to life again, the sound of the teeth meeting the guard filling the room with an almost predatory hum.

I felt the clippers press against my forehead, cold metal against skin, and then—it began.

Brrrrzt.

The clippers moved with precision, running from my forehead backward toward the crown of my head. The buzzing sound was followed by the unmistakable feeling of my hair being sheared away. The sensation of it—my thick blonde locks falling away, piece by piece—was almost surreal.

I could feel the hair being cut shorter and shorter. The clippers didn’t hesitate as they ran backward over my scalp, the weight of each lock falling down onto my shoulders and lap.

Her fingers were firm against my scalp, guiding the clippers with a steady rhythm. The more she cut, the more I could feel the coolness of the air on my scalp. The hair, once so long and free, was slowly—relentlessly—being reduced to almost nothing.

My head tilted further back as the barberette continued her work. Brrrt, brrrt, brrrt. Every pass took more hair, until all that was left were stubbled patches of pale skin and the faintest memory of what my hair had once been.

The clippers worked with relentless focus, moving in precise, backward strokes, shaving the last of my hair down to nothing. I wanted to move, to look away, but I couldn’t. The sensation was strange—almost like being carved into a new shape.

The clippers buzzed to a stop, and for a brief moment, a heavy silence filled the air. Kate blinked, trying to process the strange emptiness where her long hair had once been. The barberette’s firm hands gripped the arms of the chair, and with a practiced motion, she spun it around to face the mirror.

Kate’s breath caught in her throat as she was met with her reflection. Her golden locks, once flowing beautifully down her back, were now reduced to a precise flattop. The sharp, angular cut contrasted starkly against her skull, the soft, natural waves she had once loved now nothing more than a distant memory. Her once-full, voluminous hair was now flat against her head, the top of her head trimmed down to nearly nothing.

Her fingers tingled as she reached up instinctively, but as they touched the buzzed hair, the soft bristles felt so strange. It was as if the person staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t even her anymore. The change was profound, and she struggled to come to terms with it.

“How do you like it?” the barberette asked, her tone casual but sharp, her eyes gleaming in the reflection.

Kate felt a lump form in her throat. She opened her mouth but couldn’t quite find the words. “It’s… it’s different,” she managed, her voice quiet, almost inaudible.

The barberette smiled, clearly pleased with the work. “It suits you. A bold choice. I think you’ll get used to it.”

Kate’s eyes flickered to the window, where her friends Mia and Clara were watching from outside. Their faces were pressed up against the glass, their eyes wide with amusement, their hands raised to shield the sun as they laughed. Kate felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, a surge of self-consciousness flooding her. This wasn’t how she had imagined the dare going—she never thought her friends would be watching and recording the whole thing.

The barberette, noticing Kate’s gaze, chuckled softly. “They’re enjoying the show, huh?”

Kate didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still locked on her friends. Her fingers nervously brushed against the short hair on her head, but it was too late to undo what had been done. She knew she couldn’t go back now. But there was a defiant spark in her eyes. She was going to get them back. Next time, it would be their turn. She’d get Mia and Clara in that chair. She’d make them feel the same way she felt now, sitting there, exposed and vulnerable under the bright lights of the shop.

The barberette seemed to read her mind, a playful smile curving on her lips. “You’ll need to come back in two weeks to freshen it up,” she said, her voice smooth and commanding. “I’ll make sure it looks sharp, just like it does now.”

Kate blinked, unsure if the suggestion was a joke or a serious offer. “Two weeks?” she repeated. “I’ll need to think about that.”

The barberette simply nodded, not missing a beat. “Two weeks, then. Make sure you don’t let it grow out too much.”

With that, the barberette moved to unfasten the cape, the sound of the fabric rustling in the silence. As she pulled the cape away from Kate’s neck, the full weight of the haircut hit her. Kate glanced down, watching as her long blonde hair tumbled to the floor in a cascade of golden strands. The once-beautiful locks that had hung so freely around her shoulders were now scattered in a large ring around her feet, creating a stark contrast against the dark floor tiles of the barbershop.

Kate couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret as she stepped out of the chair. She had been daring, sure, but now it was a lot to take in. She had to step over the mass of hair that surrounded her, carefully maneuvering her feet around the ring of blonde that had once been her crowning glory. The large, scattered pile of hair felt like a final, definitive mark of the change.

As she moved toward the counter to pay, she couldn’t help but glance back at the chair. It was hard to believe it was her own hair on the floor. She could hardly remember what it had felt like to have long, flowing strands. Now, all that remained was a sharply cut flattop that felt foreign and uncomfortable.

The barberette gave her a nod as she approached the counter. “It looks great,” she said again, more to herself than Kate.

Kate nodded stiffly, still trying to adjust to her new look, before she handed over the payment. “Thanks,” she said, her voice low, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

As she left the shop, she couldn’t help but glance back at her friends, who were still watching from the window, their laughter filling the air. Kate was certain they were already planning their next move.

She’d get them back. It wasn’t over yet.