The Braid of Betrayal

Always be weary of working late.

Rachel had always been proud of her long, thick blonde hair. It was a defining feature of her beauty, cascading down her back in a soft, golden braid that nearly reached her knees. At the art university, where she honed her craft, it wasn’t just her artistic talent that drew admiration—it was the way her hair shimmered under the lights of the studio, thick and full of life, a symbol of grace and femininity. But tonight, it wasn’t just her art that would be tested—it was her identity.

It was the night before her final project was due, and Rachel had been up late working in the university’s art workshop, surrounded by scattered brushes, paint tubes, and half-finished pieces. The room was lit only by the dim glow of a desk lamp, and Rachel was focused entirely on her masterpiece—a sprawling, intricate painting she had poured her heart into. Her exhaustion had been creeping up on her, but it wasn’t until she could no longer keep her eyes open that her head dipped forward onto the desk, and her long braid slipped over her shoulder, draping across her workbench.

The prey is spotted.

Unknown to Rachel, Abbie was also working late, pushing to get her own work completed. Abbie, sitting at a neighboring table, couldn’t help but watch Rachel with a twinge of envy. The way Rachel moved, the effortless beauty of her long, thick hair, the skill she displayed in her art—it all seemed to come so naturally. Abbie had always struggled with her own artistic confidence and, more painfully, with the fact that her own hair was fine, thin, and unruly. Rachel’s long, shimmering braid was the kind of hair Abbie could only dream of. Tonight, she found herself unable to tear her gaze away from it.

When Rachel’s soft breathing filled the silence of the workshop, Abbie noticed, To her, the soft breathing sounded almost mocking. Abbie’s jealousy boiled over into something darker. An idea sparked in her mind, one that would not only sabotage Rachel’s work but rob her of something she couldn’t easily replace—her long hair.

Abbie moved stealthily, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one else was hiding in the in the dark corners of the workshop. Re-directing her gaze back to Rachel, Abbie spotted an open pot of super glue on the desk, discarded carelessly next to Rachel’s tools. A twisted smile spread across her face. This was it.

The trap is set.

She approached Rachel’s workstation quietly, making sure her footsteps were inaudible on the wooden floor. Abbie carefully reached for Rachel’s thick braid and began to smear the glue at the very base of it—where it rested at the nape of her neck. She worked quickly, massaging the glue into the strands, her fingers pressing firmly as the sticky substance seeped into Rachel’s hair, gluing it directly to the workbench. Abbie felt a strange sense of satisfaction as she watched the glue harden, bonding Rachel’s braid to the desk. It was a cruel act, but to Abbie, it was the only way to even the score.

With one final, mocking glance at Rachel’s peaceful face, Abbie snapped a picture of her with her phone—capturing the moment for her own twisted memory. Then, without a sound, Abbie left the workshop, leaving Rachel completely unaware of the trap that had been set.

The trap is sprung.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel stirred. She had been dreaming of the final strokes of her painting, but now, she awoke to a more alarming reality: she couldn’t move. Her body, stiff from the awkward position she had fallen into, protested as she tried to stretch, but something was holding her back. Her braid—her prized, thick braid—wasn’t falling over her shoulder like it normally would.

She tried to sit up but her braid didn’t shift from its place on the workstation.

Her heart began to race. Something was wrong. She pulled harder, but it felt as if her braid was pulling back with twice the force. It was stuck

Frantically reaching out to inspect her braid, her stomach sinking as felt along its length, her hands moving up to the length towards her scalp, it was then she felt it. the thick strands of her braid glued to the desk, the glue having hardened into a solid bond. Panic surged through her. No, no, no… this can’t be happening.

Rachel’s pulse quickened as she tried to free herself, but the harder she tugged, the more the glue seemed to resist. Her hair was stuck. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. The base of her braid, where it was anchored to the workbench, was completely glued down.

She glanced around frantically as much as she could. The workshop was empty. She was alone.

Cutting the ties that bind.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she scanned the space for a solution. She needed to get free. Her hands desperately clawed at anything that was in reach on the desk, in her panicked searching she brushed a pair of large fabric scissors lying on the desk. Rachel instantly recoiled back, bringing her hands back to her chest, clasping them together almost in prayer,

After what seemed like an eternity; With her eyes screwed tightly closed, Rachel knew what she had to do.

With a single tear escaping her eyes and rolling down her flushed cheeks, She grabbed out for the shears, her fingers trembling.

Rachel had no choice.

She knew she couldn’t stay like this.

With a deep, shaky breath, Rachel positioned the scissors at the very base of her braid, between where the glue had sealed it to the desk and it met her scalp. Her hand shook as she clamped the blades together, and the scissors made a soft snip through the thick strands. The sound was strangely loud in the quiet workshop, and her heart raced as the scissors cut deeper, through her pristine braided hair.

Scrunch, scrunch.

The thick hair resisted at first, but the scissors sliced through it slowly, with a dull, wet sound as they worked through the virgin untouched hair. The air was thick with tension as Rachel cut through the braid.

Scrunch.

A  single lock of one strand of her once magnificent braid separated. Rachel’s heart ached as she continued to cut through the strands, the scissors scraping through the thick blonde locks. It felt like a violation, like she was losing a piece of herself with every cut. Her hair was her pride, and now, it was falling away in uneven, jagged clumps. She had to keep cutting.

Scrunch, scrunch. scrunch.

Each cut felt like a betrayal, as if her very identity was being severed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, with one final loud snap the blades met in the middle and the last remnants of her braid fell from her neck. aching, Rachel stared down at the mess of hair, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The once-beautiful braid, her crowning glory, lay discarded on the desk in a tangle of golden strands. It was no longer the long, flawless braid that had once cascaded down her back. Now, it was a tangled mess, the ends uneven and raw.

Rachel stood, her scalp aching from the rough cutting, she ran her fingers through her hair. It was short now—much shorter than it had ever been before. looking up in horror, she saw herself for the first time in the reflection of the workshop windows, she realisied her hair was barely more than ear-length, and the unevenness of the cut made it look even worse. Her once long, thick locks now hung in messy, uneven layers, a shocking reminder of what she had lost.

Tears stung her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly, refusing to let her emotions take over. She couldn’t stay here. She had to leave.

Without a word, she grabbed her things, her heart heavy with grief. She left the workshop, leaving her severed braid behind, the weight of loss heavy in her chest.

Returning for what was once hers.

Hours later, Rachel returned to the workshop, hoping against hope that her braid might still be there, abandoned but waiting for her to reclaim it. She pushed open the door, her heart in her throat, and stepped inside.

Her breath hitched when she saw the desk. It was empty.

Her braid was gone.

Only the faint, sticky remnants of glue marked the spot where her hair had once been attached to the workbench. Rachel felt her knees buckle, her chest tightening as her mind raced. Who could have taken it? Why would anyone do this?

She looked around, her heart pounding in her ears, but the workshop was silent and devoid of answers. She ran her hands through the jagged ends of her newly cut hair and turned to leave, a deep sense of loss gnawing at her.

As she turned and walked away from her desk in defeat, all the emotions that Rachel had valiantly fought were becoming too much. letting herself out of the workshop, without realizing, she instinctively reached up for her comfort blanket, which had always been with her through thick and thin, her long thick blonde braid.

She froze, only finding her short roughly cropped hair and the cold air of the night to comfort her.

Standing alone in the cold darkness, Rachel knew she had lost her identity, sobbing uncontrollably, she walked home, defeated.

Crime does pay.

Weeks later, Rachel found herself standing in the crowded art gallery at the opening of the university’s art competition. The walls were lined with student work, and the atmosphere was electric with excitement. Rachel’s painting was on display, though she barely registered it as she moved through the gallery, her eyes aimlessly scanning for something else, something to distract her from the comments and whispers about her new ultra short cropped hair. Then, suddenly, Rachel spotted something far more unsettling.

Her braid.

There it was!

Framed in an art piece, displayed in a glass box, was her hair—her beautiful, thick blonde braid. It was mounted carefully, all 4 feet was carefully coiled to show off its full weight, length and thickness, artistically arranged with the glue still visible at its base. The sight made Rachel’s stomach turn. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped closer, recognizing the remnants of her golden locks, now turned into a twisted piece of art.

Beside the display stood Abbie, talking to a small group of people, her voice filled with pride as she explained the meaning behind her piece. The gallery owner and multiple art critics were listening intently, their eyes gleaming with admiration.

“Where did you find such an interesting piece?” the gallery owner asked, clearly impressed.

Abbie’s smile stretched wider, and without missing a beat, she turned to him. “Oh, I found it lying around,” she said, her voice light and casual, but with an edge of satisfaction. “Covered in glue. I thought it would be a shame to let it go to waste, so I recycled it. The previous owner must have left it behind.” As she finished the lofty narrative of her art piece, Abbie locked eyes with Rachel.

Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. The previous owner. Abbie was speaking directly to her, making it clear she had taken what belonged to her—and now, everyone in the gallery was admiring Abbie’s work.

Rachel stood frozen, the realization hitting her like a punch. Abbie had not only stolen her braid—she had turned it into art. The pain of what had been done to her was now on display for the world to see. And Rachel couldn’t even say a word, because Abbie had already won.

Tears pricked at Rachel’s eyes as she turned and walked away from the gallery, her heart aching with the weight of betrayal. The last remnants of her identity—her hair, her pride—had been claimed by someone else. And now, it was being admired as her art.

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