The Barbershop Bet Pt 2 – The Price of a Dare

You ever have a moment you replay in your head so many times, you start to wonder if it even happened the way you remember it?

For me, it’s the buzzing. The sound of clippers slicing through my hair. That cape pulled tight around my neck. The weight of my blonde locks hitting the floor like betrayal.

Clara and Mia thought it was so funny. A little dare. A little mall-time prank. “You wouldn’t!” they’d giggled. And me, always the one trying to prove I wasn’t afraid of anything… I walked into that barbershop like it was a joke. I walked out with a goddamn flattop.

A flattop.

Every time I look in the mirror, I see the angles. The harsh lines. The nape that feels like sandpaper when I run my fingers over it. I hate it. I tell people I’m “owning it,” but the truth? I miss my hair. I miss flipping it, brushing it, hiding behind it. I don’t want this forever. I want to grow it back.

But not yet.

Because revenge… revenge needs timing.

I haven’t forgiven Clara or Mia. Not even close. They watched me get sheared like it was a comedy show. They laughed. Filmed it, even. Posted it. Oh, I smiled at the time—played along like I was in on the joke—but I’ve been plotting ever since.

That’s why I’ve got a plan.

This weekend, Clara and I are heading back to the mall. She thinks we’re going to look for shoes or whatever. But just like last time, we’ll pass that same little barbershop tucked beside the pretzel place. And that’s when I’ll do it. I’ll casually say, “Hold up, I need a quick touch-up,” like it’s nothing. I’ll walk in, sit down, get my flattop reshaped. That’ll catch her off guard.

And when the barberette finishes, she’ll look at Clara. Maybe even pat the chair. And I’ll turn, all sweet and innocent, and say:

“Come on, just a little trim. You said you wanted to do something different, right?”

She’ll be cornered. Peer pressure’s a hell of a thing.

I’ll let them cape her up.

And then I’ll sit back and watch.

Even if it means sacrificing my grow-out plans, even if I have to keep this stupid haircut a little longer… it’ll be worth it.

To see her under that cape.

To hear the clippers start up again—but this time, not for me.

Yeah. That’ll be worth every last bristle on my head.

Now here we are…

The mall was buzzing with life — the sound of kids laughing, shoes squeaking across polished tiles, and a rotating loop of pop songs echoing through open storefronts. Clara strolled beside me, juggling shopping bags and sipping a matcha latte like she owned the place. Her honey-blonde waves bounced effortlessly, perfectly styled even in the humid air.

I trailed a little behind, one hand brushing the top of my head — not out of habit anymore, but as a reminder. The flattop had grown out, but not enough to look intentional. The edges were fuzzy, the top sagged a little unevenly, and I hated how the back just curled when it hit my neck. I kept telling people I was growing it out, but the truth was, I hadn’t decided. Not really.

Not until now.

Clara turned to say something about a pair of boots she’d seen, but I cut in casually.

“Hey, before we hit that shoe place… can we make a quick stop?”

She looked at me, half-interested. “Sure. Where?”

I smiled innocently. “You’ll see.”

She shrugged, sipping her drink again, and followed me as I veered left into a quieter hallway. The second we rounded the corner, I saw it: the black awning, the glass door, and the familiar silver pole slowly spinning. My heart picked up — like it always did — but I kept my face cool. This time, I wasn’t the clueless dare victim. This time, I had a plan.

When we got closer, Clara looked confused.

“The barbershop?” she asked, pausing. “You’re going in there?”

“Yeah,” I said, brushing my hand through my uneven top. “Time for a quick tune-up.”

She blinked. “But I thought you were—”

“Just a trim,” I lied smoothly. “Won’t take long.”

Before she could protest, I pulled the door open and stepped inside. I heard her mutter something under her breath and awkwardly follow, the little bells on the door jingling behind us.

Inside, it was calm — almost too calm. The barberette was lounging in her chair, scrolling on her phone with one leg slung over the armrest. When she noticed us, she stood slowly, her lips curling into that same crooked smirk she’d worn the first time I came in.

Without a word, she patted the chair.

I didn’t hesitate — or at least pretended I didn’t. I marched over like I did this every weekend and dropped into the seat. The chair squeaked faintly under me. My eyes flicked up to the mirror in front, catching Clara’s reflection. She had taken a cautious seat on the bench along the wall, bags piled around her like a fortress, eyebrows raised and one foot already tapping.

The barberette didn’t speak. She just walked over behind me, tugged the cape off the hook, and gave it a sharp snap. It puffed into shape like a parachute, and a second later, it was pulled tight around my neck — tighter than I remembered. I swallowed, but said nothing.

No hair was clipped up this time — there wasn’t enough of it to bother. The top was floppy, uneven, and a little too long for the style to hold, but the sides were already creeping down my ears. I looked like a misfire between growing it out and giving up. I kept my expression calm, relaxed even, but I knew every move was being watched from the bench.

The cape settled over me like a curtain, heavy and familiar. I let my hands slide beneath it, like a pro.

I caught Clara’s eyes in the mirror again. She gave me a weird little half-smile — the kind that said I don’t get it, but okay.

Exactly what I was counting on.

This wasn’t about me anymore. Not really. Sure, I’d be sacrificing what little regrowth I had, maybe even making the flattop more dramatic than before. But if it meant seeing Clara squirm… maybe even watching her take the chair after me?

Totally worth it.

The cape tightened around my neck, the familiar squeeze anchoring me in place. The heavy black fabric draped over me like a cloak, concealing everything below the shoulders. My arms rested obediently beneath, hands clasped in a relaxed but deliberate posture. It was a performance, after all — and I intended to play it perfectly.

With a firm push, the barberette spun the chair to the right, turning me away from the mirror and toward the large glass window that opened onto the mall. A spotlight without the light. I could feel eyes from passersby flicking toward me, a girl in a barber’s chair, centre stage. But I didn’t care about them.

I cared about Clara.

She was perched on the bench, her shopping bags piled at her feet, her face doing that thing where she pretended everything was fine. Her eyes were wide, though — alert, darting between me and the barberette like she wasn’t quite sure what she’d gotten pulled into.

Perfect.

The barberette didn’t say a word. She just picked up her clippers and snapped them on with a sudden buzz that sent a tingle through my chest. That hum — electric, alive, surgical.

Then, without hesitation, she pressed them to the left side of my head.

The first stroke was long and sure, gliding up from the base near my ear. The blades chewed through the soft fuzz of my grown-out flattop like it was nothing. Short copper strands danced briefly in the air before dropping to the cape and floor like autumn leaves.

I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I knew Clara was watching every second of it.

A few more passes, and the side was crisp again — that hard contrast between scalp and flat, structured top. I could feel it already, even without seeing it. That clean precision. I loved and hated it all at once.

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for.

The barberette paused, brushed off the clippers, and then, with one hand on the back of the chair, spun me again. Not just a little this time — all the way.

Now I was facing Clara.

Directly.

Her gaze snapped up and locked onto mine. I gave her a small, smug smile — nothing over the top. Just enough.

She blinked. Looked at the cape. Looked at the clippers still in the barberette’s hand. Then back to me.

And then came the next move.

With a hand on the crown of my head, the barberette gently tilted me forward. My chin lowered, and I could hear the subtle shift in Clara’s posture as I disappeared from her line of sight.

Then the clippers came to life again.

A deep, steady hum — and then they met the back of my head with purpose. Right at the base, just above the nape, they surged upward in a straight, clean path. The vibration buzzed through my skull, sending an almost involuntary shiver down my spine.

More hair tumbled away, dropping in thick clumps onto the cape. I could feel the change instantly — that clean shorn patch being carved up the back. Another stroke. Another. The sound of it was hypnotic — loud and close and final.

Clara had the full view now. My neck exposed. My silhouette transforming before her eyes. There was no denying what was happening — or what she’d instigated, even if unintentionally.

I risked a quick glance upward from my lowered head, just enough to catch her expression.

She was frozen.

A little wide-eyed.

A little fascinated.

A little nervous.

Good.

The clippers kept going, working their way up the back of my head in steady, vertical passes. The barberette was quick, efficient, and ruthless in her precision. No room for second-guessing. Just shaping, sculpting, slicing the past few weeks of growth away with methodical ease.

When the back was done, the buzzing faded. The cape rustled as loose hairs were brushed away, the chair shifting slightly beneath me.

The barberette’s hand settled on the chair again, a light but decisive grip, and then — with a quick spin — I was turned to the right once more, now facing the back of the shop. The mirror was still out of view, just a faint glimmer in my periphery. Clara was behind me now, but I didn’t need to see her to feel her there. The tension in the air told me everything.

The clippers fired up again.

I relaxed my shoulders, settling deeper into the chair, the cape stretching tight over my knees. The buzz crept closer — then it was against my right temple, climbing upward.

Zzzzzzt.

A clean, unbroken pass. Sharp and bold.

I exhaled slowly through my nose as the barberette continued, her strokes methodical. The right side of my head was being reset, each sweep carving the fuzz down to precise, smooth stubble. Hair fluttered down in tiny copper waves, the contrast between the bare sides and the sculpted top growing clearer by the second.

I felt it — the breeze on my skin, the subtle pressure of her guiding hand, the quiet rhythm of a craft being performed with cool confidence.

There was something almost theatrical about it.

When the right side was finished, the buzzing stopped. The barberette stepped away briefly, brushing off her tools with a short, practiced flick of the wrist. The pause was deliberate — letting the moment sit for just a second before she turned me again.

And then I was spun back.

The chair rotated slowly until I was facing forward once more — this time fully aligned with Clara’s gaze.

Her eyes met mine immediately.

She didn’t try to hide her reaction. There was a nervous curiosity in her stare now, a tension creeping into her posture. Her legs were crossed tightly, her hands nervously tucked between the shopping bags in her lap.

She hadn’t moved an inch since I sat down.

The barberette, silent as ever, returned with a comb. Long, white, plastic teeth gleaming under the overhead light. She ran it once through the flattop, pushing upward gently, lifting the hair with a soft scraping sound. Then came the scissors — snip, snip — precise, deliberate cuts along the ridgeline.

Snip. Comb. Snip.

Each motion crisp and practiced, more of the short bristles trimmed away and falling like confetti against the cape.

Clara watched every second.

The top was brushed up again — and again. The flat plane was coming together, inch by inch. Straight, firm, geometrically clean. Little tufts of hair littered the cape, sliding down its slope and collecting in folds near my lap. A few even clung to my cheek before the barberette brushed them away with a firm flick.

She stepped back, gave one last comb-through, checked the symmetry — and nodded to herself.

The clippers came back one more time, this time fitted with a guard. She made quick, final sweeps across the top to even the silhouette, then tapered the crown down slightly to give it a crisp, military-styled polish.

Clara’s eyes didn’t blink.

Her lips were parted slightly. Like she wanted to say something — but didn’t know what.

And I just smiled.

Sitting there, upright and proud beneath the cape, flattop sharpened to a perfect edge, I felt like I’d just pulled off the first half of a heist. The bait had been cast. The trap was tightening. And Clara?

She was already in too deep to back away.

With a final buzz and a satisfied flick of the clippers, the barberette placed them back on the counter. Her hand returned to the chair’s lever, and slowly, I was spun toward the mirror at last.

There it was — the same sharp silhouette as last time. My flattop, perfectly squared and level, standing proud with clean, bristled edges and tightly buzzed sides. The sight hit me like déjà vu. A wave of memory, half-pride, half-regret. I still didn’t love the cut — not really — but I had to admit, it looked… strong. Defined. Commanding.

Just like last time.

The cape was peeled open with a practiced flick, sending a scatter of copper bristles fluttering to the floor. Then it was unfastened and whisked away completely, leaving me brushing stray hairs from my lap as I stood.

I stepped down from the chair, smoothing my shirt as I caught a glimpse of Clara in the mirror’s reflection — still frozen on the bench, bags tucked close, her eyes wide.

I handed over the cash, casually, thanking the barberette with a smile. She nodded wordlessly and turned toward the bench.

“Next,” she called, tapping the back of the chair with two fingers.

Clara blinked.

For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at the chair like it might swallow her whole. The color drained slightly from her face.

I turned toward her with a grin. “Come on, Clara,” I said, folding my arms. “You watched the whole thing. You might as well feel what it’s like, right?”

“I—” She glanced at the barberette, then at the chair, then back to me. “I thought we were just— I mean, you didn’t say—”

“I made a little stop, like I said,” I interrupted, keeping my tone breezy. “You’re here now. Might as well give it a try. Unless you’re scared?”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. She clutched her shopping bags tighter.

“I’m not scared,” she mumbled.

“Then prove it.”

The barberette said nothing, simply waiting with that same calm, unreadable look. The chair stood there — huge, inviting, a throne with a cape waiting to be wrapped tight.

Clara gave a nervous laugh, clearly searching for an excuse. I took a step closer and gently nudged her arm.

“It’s just a little trim,” I said, voice sweet as syrup. “You’ll look great.”

She stared at me, then at the chair.

And slowly — reluctantly — she stood.

Clara’s steps were slow, like she was walking toward a ledge. Her eyes darted between me, the chair, and the barberette — who, wordless as ever, simply turned and stood beside the throne, patting the armrest again like one might for a hesitant pet.

She glanced back at me one last time, searching for a lifeline. I gave her the most encouraging — and mischievous — smile I could muster and gestured toward the chair.

“Go on. You’ll feel like a new woman.”

Clara inhaled through her nose and finally lowered herself onto the chair’s wide leather seat. She looked small in it, shrinking in uncertainty. Her fingers gripped the ends of the armrests.

The barberette didn’t wait long. Stepping behind Clara, she reached forward without a word, roughly gathering up her soft chestnut hair into her hand. Clara flinched slightly at the suddenness.

The stylist wound the length into a twist, then pulled it tight, pinning the bundle high atop Clara’s head with a big black jaw clip — a stark, rigid contrast to her soft curls. A few loose wisps clung to her cheeks, but the bulk of it now sat exposed, vulnerable, awaiting judgment.

Before Clara could process what was happening, the barberette snapped out the cape — the same black, slightly static-charged one that had just been whisked off me — and let it billow beside Clara with a dramatic whoosh. The sound alone made Clara jolt in the seat.

With one fluid motion, the cape was drawn over her, swallowed her frame whole, and was tugged tight behind her neck with practiced, no-nonsense fingers. The fastening was snug — tighter than necessary. Clara squirmed slightly under the grip.

I stepped over to the empty barber chair beside her and sat down with a sigh, crossing my legs casually. From this angle, I had the perfect view of everything — the chair, the cape, Clara’s wide, uncertain eyes in the mirror.

“You look adorable,” I murmured, resting my chin on my hand.

She didn’t reply. Her lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line, her cheeks faintly flushed. Her hands, now tucked beneath the cape like mine had been, shifted slightly, unsure what to do.

The barberette was in no hurry. She took her time brushing a few stray hairs from Clara’s shoulders, adjusting the cape’s drape, ensuring no escape. Every movement was deliberate. Precise.

Clara’s eyes met mine in the mirror. And I smiled.

The game had only just begun.

The barberette seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. She paused, her gaze flicking from me to Clara and back again. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something, but instead, she acted. She spun Clara’s chair to face me — as if setting her up for the full display.

Clara’s eyes widened in panic. She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She was completely trapped in the chair, a puppet to the situation I’d orchestrated.

With an almost practiced motion, the barberette unpinned Clara’s hair from the clip at the top of her head. The weight of her brunette locks came crashing down in a thick, smooth wave, slapping the black cape with a faint whoosh. A sea of hair cascaded around her shoulders, spilling onto the cape in a heavy curtain.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin in my hand, my eyes never leaving the scene unfolding in front of me. “You’re doing great,” I said sweetly. Clara’s once-beautiful, long hair now hung in loose, vulnerable waves. She looked like she was bracing herself for something much worse. And, to her horror, she wasn’t wrong.

The barberette didn’t waste any time. She grabbed a large section of Clara’s hair at the nape of her neck and hacked through it with a swift, deliberate snip. The sound of the scissors slicing through the thick locks was almost satisfying — schhhk. A long, dark section of hair fell away and dropped to the floor with a heavy plop.

Clara’s breath hitched, and I could see her eyes dart to the floor as more of her hair joined the growing pile of cut strands. But it didn’t stop there.

The barberette picked up another large section and sliced through it as if the hair were nothing more than straw. Schk-schhhk. More hair fell, cascading down like a waterfall. The floor around Clara was becoming littered with locks of her own hair, mixed with a few stray strands from my earlier haircut that still hadn’t been swept away.

Clara’s eyes were glued to the mirror, wide with disbelief. She was breathing fast, her shoulders rising and falling with every shaky breath. She hadn’t said a word, but I could tell she was already beginning to realise just how much hair was going to be lost today. And it was only just the beginning.

With practised movements, the barberette continued, picking random sections of Clara’s hair, her shears snipping away in rhythmic bursts. Clara’s once-beautiful waves were quickly being reduced to uneven, jagged chunks of hair, falling onto the cape and the floor.

It was almost like watching a sculptor at work, except instead of chiselling marble, the barberette was cutting away at Clara’s hair — a little bit at a time, but with every snip, more of her identity, her beauty, was being erased. And I watched it all, savouring every moment.

The barberette’s hands moved quickly, never hesitating, and before long, Clara’s hair was in shambles. Her soft, flowing brunette locks were reduced to a ragged, short mess.

But still, this was only the beginning. The real transformation hadn’t even started yet.

I could tell Clara was getting nervous. Her mouth was set in a firm line, but her hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white. She was trying to hold it together — but deep down, I could see the panic rising in her.

The barberette took a step back, assessing her work. She seemed satisfied, but I knew she wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

She grabbed a comb and began to comb through what was left of Clara’s hair. Each tug made Clara wince, but she stayed silent, her expression now a mixture of fear and resignation. The barberette was going to finish what she started, no matter how much Clara protested inwardly.

The next round was coming — and I could hardly wait to see what would happen next.

I couldn’t help but admire the sight in front of me. Clara, once so sure of herself and her beauty, now sat quietly in the chair, caped up, her once-immaculate hair now strewn across the floor around her. The strands—some long, some shorter—had fallen in all directions, creating a messy carpet of hair beneath her. It was almost surreal to see, how her hair, once so thick and shiny, was now a tangled mess. Not as long or as dramatic as mine had been before my own reckless dare, but still, a part of me couldn’t help but acknowledge the beauty she had once had.

Her face was tight with anxiety, her eyes darting to the floor, avoiding looking at her reflection. But as much as she might want to ignore the situation, I couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of it all. She had once dared me to sit in that chair, pushing me to get my hair hacked off. Now, it was her turn to be subjected to the very same fate.

The sight of her, sitting there under the black cape, completely unaware of what was coming, brought a twisted sense of satisfaction. It felt almost… poetic. She had been the one to make me face the consequences of my own dare, and now she was about to feel the same sting, though she had no idea just how much she was about to lose.

I watched closely as the barberette, seemingly aware of the tension in the air, began preparing for what was next. She gave the cape a tug, ensuring it was tight against Clara’s neck before she reached for the clippers. The hum of the clippers filled the air, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the barberette turned on the clippers, and I could feel the room tense. The sound grew louder as she held the clippers in her hand, ready to begin the transformation. I leaned in, my heart racing with excitement as I watched the barberette run the clippers through Clara’s thick brown hair, pushing them from her forehead all the way back to her crown.

The clippers buzzed through her hair in one swift motion, the sharp metal teeth biting into her strands and tearing them away effortlessly. Clara’s hair began to fall in thick clumps, tumbling down the front of the cape and onto the floor in a cascading waterfall of brown locks. I saw her flinch, the sound of the clippers almost too much for her to bear. Her hair, which had once been so full and thick, was rapidly thinning out, piece by piece.

The barberette didn’t hesitate, moving the clippers with a practiced hand, gliding them across Clara’s forehead, leaving a trail of freshly shaved scalp in their wake. The buzz of the clippers was steady, methodical, and as Clara’s once-beautiful hair continued to fall away, I couldn’t help but smile.

What really kept my attention, though, was Clara’s position. She couldn’t see what was happening to her hair in the mirror. Instead, she was forced to look directly at me, her wide eyes filled with fear and disbelief. The realization that she had no control over this, that she had to watch herself lose all of her hair while seeing me witness it firsthand, sent a thrill through me. The whole situation felt so perfect. She was trapped, her reflection out of reach, while I got to take it all in, savoring every moment.

I could see her face redden as the clippers continued their work. Each pass of the blade left more of her hair in my view, and I reveled in it. She couldn’t look away. She had to watch me enjoy it. The barberette kept cutting, methodically buzzing away at her thick brown locks, making her hair shorter and shorter. The sound of the clippers was oddly satisfying, punctuated by the soft swish of hair falling onto the cape and the floor.

The best part? The fact that she couldn’t escape the sight of me as I watched her transformation. Her beautiful hair, which had once been so perfectly maintained, was now being torn away in a public spectacle. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t hide.

The clippers buzzed again, and this time the barberette ran them down Clara’s hair, cutting it closer to the scalp with each pass. Her thick hair was falling away in pieces, leaving her with less and less of what she had walked in with. I leaned forward, savoring every second, knowing that soon she would be left with only stubble.

Her face twisted in a mix of emotions, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t hide from me or the reflection of her fate. I didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for her. This was justice. This was exactly what she deserved.

The barberette worked with precision, her hands deftly manipulating Clara’s head as if she were a mannequin, positioning her to get the best angle. Every time Clara flinched or tried to resist, the barberette didn’t hesitate. She grasped her head firmly, turning it slowly, deliberately, forcing Clara into position. She was in complete control now, just as the situation demanded.

I watched, my eyes fixed on Clara’s face. She was trying to maintain some sense of dignity, but it was clear she couldn’t escape the inevitable. The barberette moved her head again, this time, tugging a bit harder than before, forcing her to face the back of the chair. It felt almost like a dance, Clara’s head following the rhythm of the clippers as they made their way up the back of her skull. The clippers buzzed louder as they traveled down the back of her neck, carving away chunks of her hair, which tumbled off her shoulders and onto the cape.

With each move, the barberette kept Clara’s head tilted just so, guiding her through the process, all while keeping the chair barely turned sideways—just enough so I wouldn’t miss a moment of the transformation. She knew what she was doing, and I appreciated it. It felt like an act of subtle defiance, one that made me feel even more in control of the situation. I wasn’t just watching. I was witnessing this.

Clara’s face flushed with discomfort as the barberette continued working, the sharp sound of clippers buzzing against her scalp echoing through the small space. The once thick strands of her brunette hair were disappearing faster than I had imagined. The barberette’s hands were swift, moving in and out with a practiced ease. The sharp, almost clinical sound of the clippers cutting through the last remnants of her hair only heightened the tension.

Clara tried to adjust, to wriggle slightly in her chair, but the barberette was quick to maintain control, adjusting Clara’s head again, almost aggressively. I saw Clara wince as she was forced to face the side of the chair again. But the barberette was determined to keep her in my view, ensuring that I wouldn’t miss a single second of the show. Every clump of her hair that fell to the floor felt like another victory.

It was fascinating to see how Clara’s features tightened with each pass of the clippers. At one point, I could’ve sworn I saw a bead of sweat form on her forehead as she realized just how much of her identity was being stripped away, piece by piece.

The chair barely shifted. Every time the barberette wanted a new angle, she simply turned Clara’s head just slightly, allowing me to follow every detail of the transformation. Clara’s sideburns were the next to go, swiftly buzzed away, leaving a smooth canvas. Then, the back of her neck was shaved clean, leaving nothing but bare skin.

I almost couldn’t contain my satisfaction. I’d been the one to get humiliated in the chair before. Now, I was watching Clara slowly lose the one thing she had so often flaunted—her beautiful hair.

As the barberette continued to move Clara’s head with precision, I took in every moment. The small shifts in Clara’s expression, the way her breath hitched with every pass of the clippers, it was all building toward something even more final. This wasn’t just about the hair—it was about control, and I was thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

Finally, the barberette finished the final touch, her clippers humming as they buzzed the last of Clara’s hair into a short, uniform cut. She placed the clippers down with a soft click, stepping back to admire her work. Then the barberette spun Clara slowly, so she was directly facing the mirror. The reflection of Clara’s new hairstyle—so different from what she had known—stared back at her. Her chest tightened as she took in the change.

Clara was shocked by the results, her hair lying everywhere but on her head which was now just buzzed all over. She had to force back the tears, trying to remain strong.

The barberette then stepped to the side and gave me a subtle look as if saying, “you have permission.”

I didn’t need asking twice, I jumped up out the chair and skipped over. “Wow!” I said, running my hands all over her head, enjoying the feeling of the bristles on her head. It was almost soothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“Karma,” I simply said. “Now you know what I went through, just be thankful I chose not to record your predicament and post in on social media like you and Mia did. And don’t even think about telling her what happened, I’ve got something planned for her too,” I said conspiratorilly.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, you were supposed to leave before anything happened,” Clara defended.

“You shouldn’t have put me through it in the first place,” I scolded, my hands now firmly gripping her caped shoulders. “You knew how much I loved my hair but you did it anyway, and you didn’t reassure me or anything afterwards, you just laughed it off like it was nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Clara said, her eyes looking down in shame.

I then turned to the barberette who was just watching from the side, not saying anything.

I then stepped back, letting her do her job as she now unfastened the cape off of Clara, letting her get up out of the chair.

Clara hesitantly got out of the chair, her legs slightly wobbling after the ordeal. “Thank you,” she politely said to the barberette, although it was slightly awkward as she had just heard the whole thing.

“How much?” I asked the barberette.

“£15” she said bluntly.

I then got out my purse and handed £15 to her. “Come on, let’s go home and we can put this behind us,” I said, taking Clara’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. I had to admit, she did look hot with the buzzcut. Rather tempting if I do say so myself.

We picked up our bags and made our way out of the shop, strutting down the mall towards the exit, earning quite a few glances from passers-by which I ignored. Clara on the other hand tried to hide herself behind me a little bit but I didn’t care.

The first stage of my plan was complete.

Now for the second…

Mia.