The C-Block Barbershop

They didn’t tell us much before we got here.

Just that it would be long. Hot. And final.

The prison bus hissed to a halt, brakes squealing like some wounded animal. No one spoke. You could feel the weight of it—the moment you stop being whoever you were before and start being something else. Something smaller. Caged.

The doors groaned open.

A dry gust of wind rushed inside, hot and unforgiving, carrying the stench of dust and diesel. The guard barked at us like we were nothing more than livestock.

“Off the bus. Let’s go!”

Chains clinked as we stood—wrists cuffed to waist belts, ankles shackled two by two. The heat outside hit harder than expected, like walking into an oven. Squinting under the harsh sun, I stepped off the last stair, feeling the gravel crunch beneath my boots.

Ravenhill Correctional Facility stood ahead, sun-bleached concrete wrapped in barbed wire. Its walls seemed to absorb the light, casting a dull glare in every direction. Guard towers loomed at the corners like sentinels, rifles and mirrored sunglasses peeking out behind steel.

We were eight, herded into a line like animals waiting for slaughter.

To my left was Casey Wilde—tall, sharp-jawed, with a neck tattoo that ran down under her collarbone like a vine. Her eyes were dark and cold, the kind that warned you not to speak unless invited.

Next to her was Jazz Valentine. She was shorter, with dyed blue bangs that peeked out from under her cap. Her lips were pierced, fingers restless, like she didn’t know how to keep still even when chained.

Beside me on the right stood Noor Amini, elegant even in cuffs. High cheekbones, smooth mocha skin, and thick black curls tied in a bun that somehow still looked regal. She wore silence like armor—calm, unreadable.

And me? I’m Elle Morrigan. Five foot nine, red hair down to my ass, pale as a ghost with a temper that never helped me much. My hair’s always been the thing people remembered—long, thick, and the color of fire under sunlight. A vanity, maybe. But also a shield.

I could feel the way the other inmates already inside looked at us from across the yard—leaning against the fences, lounging in corners, watching with predator patience. They didn’t speak, but their eyes did.

Fresh meat.

The gates groaned open and we were pushed through.

Inside, the air turned stagnant—bleach, sweat, metal. The sound of locking doors echoed behind us, one after another, a chorus of finality.

“Strip room!” a guard snapped. “Two at a time.”

Casey and I were pushed into the first chamber—white tile walls, fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly.

“Face the wall. Strip. Now.”

I hesitated.

The guard smacked the back of my head lightly. Not hard. Just enough to humiliate. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

I swallowed hard and began peeling off my transport uniform—sweat-soaked tee, cotton pants, socks. No privacy. No illusion of dignity. I heard Casey beside me breathing slow and even, like she’d done this before.

When I pulled the shirt over my head, my hair fell like a curtain around me, swaying past my hips. I didn’t want to see the guard’s eyes, but I felt them.

One by one, our items were thrown into bins, never to be returned.

“Hands up. Mouth open. Turn around. Squat.”

I did it. The humiliation was sharp, electric, but I made myself numb. You had to, in places like this.

Then came the showers.

We were marched into a wide tiled room with steel pipes running along the ceiling and crusty showerheads spaced out like feeding troughs. Four of us were herded in at a time—me, Jazz, Noor, and Casey.

“Under the water. No talking.”

The cold hit like a slap to the spine.

I gasped, water cascading down my back, soaking the red strands clinging to my skin. My hair felt like a chain, heavy and wet, twisting around my hips. Noor kept her face forward, lips tight. Casey scrubbed quickly, methodically. Jazz let out a soft curse, jumping at the frigid stream.

There was no soap. Just steel and water.

We stood there, bare and shivering, surrounded by strangers who would become our world for however long we were locked inside this place.

When the water shut off with a hiss, guards tossed towels at us.

I caught mine and dried quickly. The air was freezing against my skin. My wet hair slapped against my back with every movement. I wanted to braid it, wrap it up, do something—anything—but I couldn’t. There wasn’t time.

We were marched out and handed our new uniforms: stiff orange jumpsuits folded into neat piles. No underwear. No bras. Just the jumpsuit, prison boots, and socks that smelled faintly of disinfectant.

I stepped into the legs, tugged the zipper up, and tried not to wince as the rough fabric stuck to my damp skin. The collar rubbed against my neck. My hair, now half-dry, bunched at the nape in a tangle.

I caught Noor glancing at me as I tucked my hair beneath the collar. There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Pity? Envy? I didn’t ask.

Once we were all dressed, we were marched down another corridor, the walls closing in on us with each step. The white-tiled floors became grey concrete. The light dimmed.

We were told to line up.

Eight of us now, side by side.

A woman walked in—tall, power-suited, with silver hair twisted into a bun like wire. Her face was carved from stone. Her eyes scanned us, calculating. Warden Monroe.

“I am Warden Monroe,” she said coolly. “You are no longer free women. You are now inmates of Ravenhill Correctional Facility. You do not ask questions. You do not defy orders. You do not hold onto the past.”

Her gaze lingered on each of us in turn.

When it landed on me, her eyes flicked to my hair—still damp, still striking even in this place.

“You will follow instructions without hesitation. Fail to do so, and you will face the consequences.”

She turned and walked toward the far door.

“Follow me.”

The guards barked: “Move!”

And we did.

No questions. No resistance.

Only the sound of boots on concrete, the echo of the door closing behind us, and the steady thrum of fear crawling up the back of my neck.

I didn’t know what was coming.

But I had a sinking feeling the worst part hadn’t even started yet.

We followed Warden Monroe in a single-file line, our new boots heavy against the concrete floor. The hallway stretched like a tunnel, narrow and endless, walls the color of faded bone. I was second from the back, just ahead of Noor. I could hear her breathing, steady and quiet, like she’d already braced herself for whatever came next.

I hadn’t.

As we turned a corner, a low hum rippled in the air ahead of us. It grew louder with each step. Voices—female voices—laughing, yelling, sneering.

The moment we entered the central corridor of the main block, the sound broke like a wave.

“Fresh fish!”

“Look at this one! You see that red hair?”

“Dibs on Blue Bangs!”

Dozens of inmates leaned over railings, pressed against mesh fences, or lounged with cruel smiles along the walls. Their eyes roved over us like we were a lineup of desserts on a tray. A few made obscene gestures. One woman mimicked scissors with her fingers, snapping them in the air while staring straight at me.

I kept my eyes forward. One foot in front of the other. But I could feel my scalp tighten with every comment.

“Ginger Barbie looks like she’s gonna cry.”

“She ain’t keepin’ all that hair, not in here.”

That one stuck. The way it was said—casual, knowing. Like it wasn’t a threat, just a fact.

I swallowed and marched on.

Jazz, just ahead of me, threw a middle finger over her shoulder without turning around. Casey, first in line, didn’t react at all. Noor behind me remained a ghost—silent, unbothered. Or at least good at pretending.

The hallway veered left, and the noise fell away behind us, muffled by the thick walls. We passed signs stenciled in red paint: MEDICAL, MAINTENANCE, LAUNDRY.

Then one read: GROOMING.

The door beside it was steel, with a slit window just at eye level. A guard punched in a code on the panel and the lock buzzed.

The barbershop.

It wasn’t what I expected.

We stepped into a square room, brighter than the halls, with tiled floors and pale green walls. The air smelled of disinfectant and faint traces of hair product. Two old-fashioned barber chairs sat side by side in the center—black leather, steel footrests, headrests that looked more like restraints.

Along the right wall was a long wooden bench, just big enough for the eight of us to sit shoulder-to-shoulder. The opposite wall held a wide mirror, and beneath it, counter space with drawers, clippers, brushes, and a row of unlabeled jars.

“Sit,” barked the guard.

We did.

The bench was cold beneath me. My damp hair clung to my back in heavy coils. I tried not to touch it, not to reach up to check the ends. Everyone else stayed still too. Something in the air told us to.

Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. I lost track.

Then the door on the other side of the room opened.

She walked in like she owned the floor.

Tall. Muscular. Dark-skinned. Eyes sharp as glass. Her head was shaved down to a near-perfect buzz, a shadow of black against her skull. She wore a modified uniform—sleeves rolled, top unzipped halfway to reveal her collarbone and a thick scar that ran diagonally across it. Her arms were roped with lean muscle, veins visible even at rest.

This was Razor.

Behind her came a second woman—shorter, wiry, with platinum-blonde hair shaved into a short fade, buzzed even tighter at the sides. She didn’t smile. Neither did Razor.

They said nothing.

Just walked in… and stood behind the two barber chairs. Waiting.

The hum of silence settled on our shoulders like weight. Razor crossed her arms, scanning us slowly. Her eyes paused on each of us, judging, measuring.

When she reached me, I felt it.

The shift.

Her gaze landed on my hair like a claim. She said nothing, but the smirk that curved her lips made my stomach flip.

She looked away.

The guard stepped to the center of the room.

“New arrivals will be processed before entering general population,” he said. “You will wait your turn. No talking. No movement unless instructed.”

His eyes flicked to the barbers.

“They’ll take it from here.”

He left the room. The door sealed behind him.

And suddenly, it was just us.

Eight inmates on a bench. Two chairs. Two women. And a silence that promised something none of us could name out loud yet.

The silence in the barbershop had grown thick. I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the soft creak of the wooden bench as someone shifted slightly. My hands stayed folded in my lap, but my fingers dug into my palms.

Razor turned to look at us, her eyes scanning down the row like she was choosing cuts of meat.

“Freya Mendez,” she said, her voice low, firm, and without a hint of warmth.

“Freya Mendez,” Razor said again, more for punctuation than command. Freya stood with a measured breath, and I watched the muscles ripple under the fabric of her prison tee. She glanced down the bench at us once, smirking faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her boots echoed softly as she walked across the concrete floor and sank into the left chair like she’d done it before. Maybe she had.

Then the second barber stepped forward and called out, “Agnes L. Stone.”

The voice was clipped, higher-pitched, almost gleeful in a strange way. The woman behind it wore the same faded beige uniform as Razor, but her tag was visible when she moved:
CARMELA V. – CELL 37A

Elle, I reminded myself, keep your head down.

Carmela V. was tall and wiry, her head shaved down to the same harsh stubble as Razor’s. Her buzzcut suited her: angular, severe, with sharp cheekbones and hollowed eyes that hinted at long months in this place. Her grin widened as Agnes hesitated.

Agnes—round-faced and short, her curls already drooping under the stale air—stood with her arms tucked close. She shuffled forward like she was walking to the gallows.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I heard the twin snaps of the capes being wrapped around their shoulders.

Razor and Carmela didn’t speak again.

They didn’t need to.

I watched, hypnotized and horrified, as Razor tilted Freya’s chin up with a gloved hand, almost gently. She flicked the clippers to life again, that humming buzz swelling like a hornet’s nest.

And then… she pressed them into Freya’s forehead and drew a clean, gleaming path straight down the middle of her skull.

Freya didn’t move. But her knuckles tightened on the arms of the chair.

Dark, thick waves of black hair slid down her shoulders, catching in the folds of the cape before falling to the ground. Razor’s face was calm—serene, even—as she worked, but there was something else there too. A glint in her lilac eyes, like she was savoring every motion.

Enjoying it.

Dominating.

Each stroke of the clippers felt like more than hair being taken—it was control. Power. Razor leaned in close to Freya, lips at her ear, whispering something none of us could hear. Whatever it was made Freya’s jaw clench. She didn’t flinch—but she wasn’t unaffected either.

Next to her, Carmela was less elegant. She shoved Agnes’s head forward, yanking the curls taut before buzzing them off in chunks. The clippers tugged slightly on every pass. Agnes bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

“You okay?” Casey’s whisper reached me again, softer this time.

I nodded, but I didn’t believe it.

“Just breathe. It’s not you yet,” she added. Her voice had a steadying rhythm, like she’d said this before to someone else.

I risked a glance toward her.

Casey Dean—cool, effortless, and somehow calm in all this—hadn’t taken her eyes off the scene ahead. She wasn’t scared. Not really. Or maybe she just didn’t show it.

My hands were folded in my lap, fists tucked into my sleeves. I could feel the weight of my hair on my back—still there, still long, still mine. The ends brushed against the top of my waistband like a security blanket I wasn’t ready to lose.

But that floor—God, that floor—was littered now with Freya’s raven locks and tufts of blond coils. Shorn pieces scattered like feathers. Gone.

They were still going.

It wasn’t quick. That surprised me. I’d imagined it all in one pass—fast, impersonal, mechanical. But this wasn’t that.

It was slow. Deliberate. Personal.

Freya sat still beneath the cape, her dark eyes fixed ahead. Razor’s fingers pressed gently into the crown of her head, angling it this way and that as she ran the clippers over the last remaining patches of black. Shiny stubble bloomed in their wake, stark against Freya’s naturally tanned scalp. Strands of her once-glossy waves clung to her cheek and collarbone before falling like feathers to the tiled floor.

I couldn’t stop watching.

Maybe it was the silence. None of us on the bench spoke. Even Casey, for all her snide little remarks earlier, was quiet now—watching with her jaw set, her hand clenching and unclenching in her lap.

Razor didn’t speak either. She didn’t need to. Her face said everything.

There was control in the way she moved: unhurried, steady, efficient. She didn’t smile, not exactly, but there was something in her expression that told me she liked this. The closeness. The power. The transformation.

Every inch she revealed of Freya’s scalp seemed to deepen that satisfaction.

Beside them, Carmela was less refined.

She grunted as she manhandled Agnes’s head, one hand pushing down hard against her temple while the other scraped the clippers across her scalp. Chunks of golden-blonde curls clung together like torn fabric before sliding to the floor. Agnes whimpered once—but only once.

Carmela didn’t pause.

Her name tag caught my eye again as she leaned in: CARMELA V. – CELL 37A

Her buzzcut, harsher than Razor’s, gave her a more aggressive look, as if her whole body had been shaped for this purpose. A barbershop enforcer. A second-in-command who relished her rank.

Freya’s head now glistened faintly under the fluorescent lights. Smooth, freshly buzzed. Her expression hadn’t changed, but I could see it in the way her shoulders slowly dropped—some weight surrendered.

Razor picked up a brush and gently swept away the leftover hairs, then held a mirror in front of her like it was ceremony.

Freya met her own reflection. She didn’t react. Not visibly. But something flickered there.

“You’re done,” Razor murmured.

Freya stood. Her boots hit the floor softly. She didn’t look at us as she moved to the far wall and stood with her hands behind her back.

Agnes was next. Carmela gave her a quick slap on the shoulder and tugged the cape off roughly. Her pale scalp was blotchy, raw-looking, still covered with uneven tufts. Carmela clearly didn’t take the same pride in her work as Razor did.

Agnes looked… lost.

She swayed on her feet a little before walking slowly to stand next to Freya, her curls now a pile of yellow softness on the floor.

I swallowed.

My hair still touched my lower back. My red waves felt heavier than ever now, clinging to me like roots I didn’t want to lose.

Razor turned to us, her eyes calm and searching.

Casey whispered under her breath, “That’s two down.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Razor raised her hand. Carmela cracked her knuckles.

“Next,” Razor said.

Jazz and Noor stood as if pulled by invisible strings. Jazz moved first, predictably calm—like none of this fazed her. Her head was high, braids swaying rhythmically as she walked toward Razor’s chair with a confidence that felt rehearsed. She didn’t look back.

Noor followed, quieter. She moved with the quiet grace of someone who knew how to stay small. Her eyes flicked around the room like she was trying to memorize every exit before she even reached the chair. She sat stiffly, placing her hands in her lap as Carmela loomed behind her.

The capes were snapped over their shoulders.

Jazz’s hair looked heavier today, or maybe it was just the light. Thick black braids hung past her chest, some wrapped in copper thread and beads. Razor took one in her hands, rolled it between her fingers like she was testing a rope.

“Shame,” Razor muttered.

Then the clippers roared to life.

There was something final about that sound.

I felt a jolt go through my chest.

The first braid fell after a single, unceremonious cut, landing with a soft thud onto the linoleum floor. It lay like a severed limb, twitching only in my imagination.

Another followed.

And another.

Jazz didn’t flinch. Her face was stoic, her chin tilted slightly up—defiant, unreadable. Her eyes didn’t blink. Not once. If it hurt, she didn’t show it. If it shamed her, she swallowed it whole.

But I could see her knuckles whitening beneath the cape.

Razor worked with slow precision, unwinding each braid, feeding it to the clippers, then shaving down the stubble beneath until Jazz’s scalp emerged—dark, smooth, gleaming under the overhead light. She circled the chair like a lioness around prey, never rushed, never careless.

Behind her, Carmela took the opposite approach.

Noor whimpered softly as the first chunk of her long black hair slid down her chest. Carmela hadn’t even bothered to section it. She drove the clippers straight down the middle of her head like a butcher, revealing a pale, vulnerable strip of skin from forehead to crown.

I couldn’t look away.

Hair rained around Noor’s shoulders in broken strands. She was breathing fast, her chest rising and falling too quickly. I saw her clench her hands in her lap, then release them, then clench again. Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror in front of her, as if willing herself to vanish into it.

Jazz’s hair formed a coiled nest around Razor’s boots now. Each braid placed with unsettling care on top of the growing mound of Freya’s waves and Agnes’ buttery curls. The floor looked like a sacrificial altar—beautiful, tragic, and absolute.

Carmela barked something under her breath—too low for me to hear—and yanked Noor’s head to the side, revealing the cleanly buzzed half of her scalp. Strips of her black hair clung to her collarbones, the tips darkening with sweat.

Noor’s bottom lip quivered.

I felt a chill settle into my spine.

Jazz finally broke her silence with a slow exhale. It was long and steady, as if releasing something she’d been gripping too tightly. Razor caught her eye in the mirror and raised one hand to gently smooth over the short bristles.

“Soft,” Razor murmured, almost fondly. “Looks good on you.”

Jazz gave her a look. Not gratitude. Not defiance, either. Something else. A kind of quiet acknowledgement. Like the beginning of something she wasn’t ready to name.

Carmela had nearly finished with Noor now, running the clippers roughly along the nape of her neck. Noor’s shoulders were visibly trembling, and her lips were pressed into a bloodless line.

Her final locks fell silently, joining the growing mat of discarded beauty.

Then came the brushes—the final sweep.

Razor, ever meticulous, used a soft-bristled brush to clean the tiny hairs from Jazz’s shoulders and ears. She tilted her head slightly, as if admiring her handiwork.

“Done,” she said, crisp.

Jazz stood slowly, rising with an eerie grace. Her freshly shaven head caught the fluorescent light, and for a moment, she looked almost regal. She didn’t glance back at Razor, or at the pile of braids on the floor. She simply walked to the wall and took her place beside the others—bare, unbothered, but forever changed.

Carmela didn’t bother brushing Noor. She yanked off the cape and shoved her forward. Noor stumbled a little but caught herself and walked unsteadily to the line, her eyes glassy, her scalp patchy and raw.

Their hair lay behind them now. Four lives, four stories, four crowns.

Gone.

Only four of us remained.

“Next!” Razor called, the word echoing through the tiled walls.

Two more girls stood.

We didn’t know their names. No one had spoken much during processing—none of us had the energy, not after the strip, the shower, the uniform swap that stole our pasts. But we recognized their faces. One was blonde and bouncy with a frizzy halo of curls; the other taller, stockier, with tight braids and a neck tattoo that dipped beneath her collar.

They walked with matching hesitation, their shoulders stiff and heavy as they stepped toward the chairs.

I swallowed hard.

There were only four of us left moments ago. Now, just me and Casey.

Casey leaned toward me slightly, her breath tickling my ear. “I thought maybe they’d let us keep it. Just trim us or something. But…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

I nodded once, barely. My hands were balled into fists on my thighs. My scalp prickled just watching the girls sit down and get caped. Their nervous glances flickered toward us—two pairs of wide eyes, desperate to be anywhere else.

Carmela adjusted the cape on her client with none of Razor’s flair. She was all speed and sneer, slapping the heavy plastic into place like she was preparing meat for slaughter. Razor, meanwhile, stepped in behind the blonde girl with a theatrical slowness, her fingers trailing through the dense, springy curls as if savoring the moment.

“She likes it,” I murmured. “Razor. She likes doing this.”

Casey nodded grimly. “You can tell by how she touches the hair. Like it’s hers already.”

The clippers snapped on again—both sets this time.

I winced.

The tall girl twitched as Carmela dug in, driving the clippers up the side of her head with rough, jerking movements. The neck tattoo disappeared beneath a field of clean scalp. Long braids hit the floor in sharp, brutal drops. Some still had beads attached—pink ones, a few silver.

Beside her, Razor took her time again. She seemed to enjoy the contrast—the wild curls collapsing, clinging to her fingers, then fluttering to the ground like scorched leaves. The blonde girl didn’t cry, but her breathing was sharp and uneven, loud even over the hum.

More hair fell, joining the pile.

It was hard to tell where one girl’s ended and the next began. The floor was a graveyard of strands, braids, curls, and color. So many stories shed in silence.

Casey shifted in her seat. “You think they’ll make us do this every month?”

I nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the growing mess at the barbers’ feet. “Probably. To keep it short. Control.”

She let out a bitter breath. “Fucking humiliating.”

I didn’t disagree. I just kept watching.

Razor had her hand on the blonde’s chin now, turning her gently, like a sculptor admiring her work. A smooth buzzed scalp gleamed under the lights, freshly bared to the world. The girl closed her eyes and bit her lip.

Casey nudged me with her elbow. “When you go up… don’t cry, okay?”

I turned to her, surprised. “What?”

“I just—” Her mouth twitched into something like a smile, but it didn’t last. “You’re brave. That long red hair? They’re gonna love hacking that off. But don’t give them the satisfaction.”

I blinked at her. For a moment, the noise of the clippers felt far away. “You too.”

She gave a stiff nod. “We’re the last ones. Gotta go out strong.”

The buzzers stopped again.

Hair littered the floor like battlefield debris. Blonde curls and braids tangled across each other, layered over the dark waves of Jazz, Noor, Freya, and Agnes. Seven crowns lost.

The capes were stripped away. The two girls stood slowly, arms pressed to their sides, shoulders curved inward. One wiped at her cheek, trying to be discreet. The other just stared at the floor as they walked to the wall, joining the rest.

Only two empty chairs remained.

And two of us left to fill them.

Razor and Carmela turned toward us. Carmela’s face was blank, but Razor…

She smiled.

“Her.”

The word snapped across the barbershop like a thunderclap.

I froze. My stomach dropped as Razor’s inked arm extended, finger pointed squarely at me. There was no mistaking who she meant.

“You. Red.”

The room seemed to still for a beat. Even the hum of the overhead lights dulled in my ears.

Carmela took a single step forward from behind her chair, eyes narrowing with anticipation—but Razor turned her head just enough to stop her in her tracks. The look on her face wasn’t anger. It was possession.

“She’s mine,” Razor said, her voice low but unchallengeable. “Saw that hair the second she stepped off the bus. That red mane? Been counting the minutes.”

There was something disturbingly intimate about the way she said it. Like she wasn’t talking about cutting hair at all.

Casey gave me a glance from beside me, a flash of something that looked like pity—or warning.

I moved, slow and shaky. My legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me. As I stepped forward, past the other girls on the bench, every eye in the room followed me. My face burned.

Razor’s stare never broke. Her eyes roamed over me like I was already in the chair. She leaned back slightly, smiling, predatory.

I reached the seat and paused, but Razor just nodded.

“Sit.”

I did. The cold vinyl sucked the warmth from me instantly. I sat upright, stiff as a board, my long red hair spilling down behind me like a river of fire. It flowed past my waist, even seated—thick, soft, untouched.

Razor circled behind me slowly. Like a lion stalking her claim. Then she reached for the cape.

It was dark grey. Heavy. She snapped it once in the air with a sharp flick, and the sound made me flinch.

“Let’s wrap you up nice and tight,” she murmured.

She didn’t rush. She took her time drawing the cape around me, stretching it over my shoulders like she was blanketing me for a ritual. Her fingers grazed the back of my neck as she gathered the fabric, then pulled it in snug. I heard the click of the clasp being fastened—tighter than necessary. It constricted slightly at my throat, forcing my chin up.

“There we go,” she said, low and satisfied. “Can’t have all this red beauty getting away.”

She stepped back into view, now standing to my right, and used both hands to spread my hair out over the cape deliberately. The strands fanned across the plastic like molten silk. She touched it reverently, brushing it, feeling the weight of it in her palms.

“This is a lot of hair,” she said aloud, mostly to herself—but the whole room could hear. “Gonna take my time with this one.”

I watched her in the mirror. Her buzzed scalp gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and a faint scar curved across one temple like a badge of violence. Her grin widened as she looked at me through the glass, our eyes locking. Her expression was pure pleasure.

“You’ve got no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this, Elle.”

That she knew my name made it worse.

In the next chair, I saw Carmela flinging the cape over Casey. Our eyes met again, a shared glance of quiet dread. Her mouth didn’t move, but I saw the tension in her jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders.

We were both moments away from the same fate.

And there was no stopping it now.

Razor leaned closer, her hand once again sliding over my long, crimson hair.

“You’ll look even prettier when it’s all gone.”

Click.

The sound was deafening. Sharp. Final.

The clippers buzzed to life in Razor’s hand, and my breath caught in my throat.

She held them up beside my face, close enough that I could feel the vibrations in the air. Her fingers rested lightly on my shoulder through the cape, a touch that was almost gentle—but it held me there, a silent reminder of who was in control.

“You hear that, Red?” she said, voice silky and slow. “That’s the sound of freedom… being shaved away.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

Razor circled around to my left side and gently swept the curtain of red hair forward over my shoulder, letting it fall across my chest like a luxurious scarf. She stared at it for a moment, then grinned.

“Shame, really. But rules are rules.”

She didn’t hesitate.

With one hand, she grasped a thick section of hair at my crown—firm, unrelenting fingers digging into my scalp—and then pressed the buzzing clippers into the base.

The vibration hit my skull like a jolt.

Then came the sound: a low, hungry growl as the blades chewed through the roots.

I watched in the mirror, frozen, as a thick clump of red slid down over my shoulder and onto the cape. Razor tilted my head slightly to expose more scalp, then carved another path straight down the center. A second chunk of hair dropped into my lap, then a third.

It was happening. My hair—my identity—was falling.

Razor leaned in close again, voice a whisper only I could hear. “I hope you said goodbye to it on the bus, sweetheart.”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I would not cry. Not in front of her.

Across from me, I could just make out Casey in the other mirror. Carmela was already halfway through her cut, clippers dancing over her scalp in wild, efficient passes. Long locks of dark blonde hair piled at her feet, limp and lifeless. Casey was gripping the arms of her chair, knuckles white, but her face was unreadable.

Another pass. More of my hair slid down the cape. Razor was taking her time. She wasn’t shaving me in straight lines—she was sectioning me off, creating uneven strips, pausing often just to feel the exposed skin beneath, to smirk at the tufts she left behind. It wasn’t about efficiency. It was about dominance.

“You know,” Razor said, loud enough now for the whole room to hear, “they always look so smug when they come in with this much hair. Like it makes them special.”

Another pass. A long strand fluttered down onto my lap. I could see the bright red glint of it in the sterile lights. I wanted to scream, to grab it and hold it back to my scalp—but my hands were useless under the cape. I was trapped.

“But now?” she whispered. “Now you look just like the rest of us.”

I clenched my jaw, eyes fixed straight ahead. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of breaking me. But God, it was getting harder with every pass of those blades.

Half my head was already bare, the skin pale and shocking beneath the remaining lengths. Razor ran her hand over the shorn part, slowly, savoring it.

“Smooth as silk,” she murmured. “We’re gonna have to keep this nice and tidy every month, Elle.”

The name felt sharp on her tongue.

I risked a glance at Casey again. She turned her head just slightly to meet my eyes, her expression softening for a second. We were both locked into this, both being stripped down in front of everyone.

Hair continued to rain down around me.

And Razor… wasn’t done yet.

Razor shifted behind me again, the clippers still humming in her hand. My head was tilted forward now, chin nearly touching my chest. Her fingers pressed gently against my scalp—confident, possessive—as she drove the buzzing blades through the remaining curtain of red hair at the back.

Each pass was deliberate. Slow. Surgical.

I felt every vibration, every tug as the clippers chewed away at the locks that once reached my waist. The pile in my lap had grown into a crimson avalanche, strands spilling over the cape, cascading to the floor. And still, she wasn’t rushing.

Across from me, Carmela worked in contrast—fast, clinical, mechanical. The blonde waves of Casey Dean fell in wide arcs with each fluid sweep of her second’s clippers. Carmela barely spoke, her face unreadable beneath the standard-issue buzzcut. Her name tag read “C. Morales – Cell 18.”

Casey’s expression was tight, focused somewhere far away. I watched in the mirror as the final strands were shaved from her crown, her once-thick hair reduced to bare scalp in less than three minutes. Just like that.

“Done,” Carmela announced coolly, brushing stray hairs from Casey’s shoulder.

Casey stood, wiping her hands down the front of her uniform pants as if trying to brush away something that wouldn’t come off. She turned toward me briefly before joining the line with the other shaved girls. Our eyes met—hers held something unspoken. Solidarity, maybe. Pity. A quiet apology.

And then it was just me in the chairs.

Just me.

The clippers purred again. Razor had returned to the left side of my head, working on the last untouched lengths that framed my face. I could see myself clearly in the mirror now—one side bare and vulnerable, the other still haloed in red. I looked absurd. Humiliated.

And everyone was watching.

The line of freshly shorn inmates stood silently across the barbershop, their eyes drawn to me. The rest of the inmates—the long-timers, the seasoned ones—watched from the sides with smirks and stifled laughs. A few whispered to each other.

I was the main act now. My humiliation stretched out for everyone to see.

“Poor Red,” one of the girls murmured from the line. “Still not done…”

I wanted to vanish. To disappear under the pile of my own hair on the floor. But Razor made sure I stayed rooted in place.

“Don’t slouch,” she murmured as she gently tilted my head back up. “Chin high, shoulders back. You’ve still got an audience.”

I swallowed hard, shame pooling in my gut.

“Why take so long?” I finally managed, voice barely audible.

Razor smirked in the mirror. “Because I like you,” she said simply. “And because girls like you never forget the first time their hair hits the floor.”

Her clippers dove back in, carving through another thick lock. I watched the tail of it slide over my shoulder, slow as a ribbon unwinding from a gift. A mocking gift.

The last few lengths still clung to the right side of my head, brushing against my cheek. Razor reached out, brushed one behind my ear with deliberate care—then raised the clippers and buzzed it off.

The clippers droned steadily, biting deeper into my scalp with each deliberate pass. Razor’s hands moved with precision, but her smile had morphed into something sharper — a predator’s grin, gleaming with delight.

“Oh, Elle,” she purred, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “did you think you’d keep any of that glorious hair? That luscious fire? Not here. Not today.”

Her fingers twirled a thick lock between her index and thumb before dragging the clippers through it, slicing the hair clean off. It tumbled down in vibrant, fiery sheets, joining the growing mountain of hair at her feet — a rainbow of red, black, blonde, and brown.

She chuckled softly, low and satisfied, as she reached for another strand. “You should see yourself from my side,” Razor taunted, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Half a princess, half a buzzcut freak show.”

The sound of the clippers buzzing grew louder as she worked faster, the weight of my fallen hair piling higher beneath me. “Oh, this is too much fun,” she laughed, tilting her head back as if she couldn’t hold back the joy anymore. “I love this part — when they start to really understand they’re mine.”

She pressed the buzzing blades closer, tracing the delicate curve behind my ear, then the nape of my neck, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “No hiding now. No pretty locks to protect you. Just skin. Soft, smooth, vulnerable skin.”

Her laughter bubbled up again, sharp and unapologetic. “How does it feel, Red? Exposed? Naked? Like you’re standing in front of a crowd, completely stripped of your pride?”

I flinched under her words, heart pounding in my chest. The pile of hair beneath me was enormous now — the remnants of Freya, Agnes, Jazz, Noor — and my own fiery strands mixed into that crimson cascade.

Razor reached down, scooping up a handful of my hair, letting it slip through her fingers like sand. “Perfect,” she whispered with a grin. “You’ll never forget the sound your hair makes when it hits the floor. Or the way it feels to lose it all.”

She straightened up, eyes gleaming as she took in the growing crowd’s silent attention.

“You’re mine, Elle,” she said, voice thick with satisfaction. “Every inch of you.”

And with that, she dove back in, buzzing the last stubborn strands away as her laughter echoed around the barbershop.

The final strands clung stubbornly to the side of my scalp, but Razor—no, Valeria—took her time, savouring every pass with the clippers like a painter adding the last strokes to her masterpiece. The buzz of the blades slowed to a murmur and then stopped altogether.

I sat there, eyes locked forward, staring at the mirror already. My reflection was alien, fragile and exposed beneath the harsh prison lights. The contrast between who I was when I walked into this room and who I saw now made my stomach knot.

But Valeria wasn’t done.

“Not just yet, sweetheart,” she purred behind me. Her fingers curled around the chair’s arms, and she spun me to the left.

“There. Let’s admire this side first,” she murmured, guiding the chair with casual control.

The right side of my buzzed scalp was sharp, bare, and gleamed faintly under the overhead strip lights. My ears looked too large, too naked, as if they had never existed without a curtain of red to soften their shape.

I couldn’t look away.

Then, with a firm tug, she turned me right.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t miss a thing,” Valeria chuckled, clearly enjoying my still silence.

I caught a glimpse of myself again—this angle no less raw than the last. My once-flowing red hair, which used to reach the small of my back, was now nothing but short fuzz covering my skull. The sensation of air against freshly bare skin sent another shudder rippling through me.

But she still wasn’t finished.

Valeria reached over to a shelf and pulled out a hand mirror.

“Let’s not forget the back, darling,” she said with gleeful mockery in her tone, holding it up behind me.

I stared into it.

The nape of my neck—once hidden under thick, heavy locks—was bare and exposed, a strip of dark red scalp showing clearly where the clippers had mowed everything away.

The back of my head was buzzed just like the rest. There was nothing left.

Something inside me nearly broke.

My lips parted, a sharp breath escaping, and I had to clench my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling.

The silence behind me was shifting now, replaced with low murmurs and snickers. I glanced across the room, just enough to see the other inmates watching.

Some stared in wide-eyed sympathy. Others looked away awkwardly, unwilling to meet my gaze. But then there were the few—always the few—who smirked or chuckled, taking joy in my humiliation.

I was the final act of their afternoon entertainment.

Valeria lowered the mirror and leaned in again, her voice sultry against my ear. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I’ve been imagining this look on you since the moment I saw those red waves come off the bus.”

Then she stepped back and, with a swift motion, whipped the cape off me.

It fluttered to the ground, dragging strands of crimson with it like the final toll of a bell. My hair pooled at my feet, a broken symbol of who I was just minutes ago.

I sat still in the chair, bare and buzzing, while the room around me murmured and shifted.

And though I wanted to disappear into the floor… I held my chin up, just enough to meet their eyes.

I was still here.

The cape gone, the buzzing stopped, and the mirror no longer in sight—but the image of my reflection still burned behind my eyes.

I stepped down from the chair slowly, knees stiff, my scalp tingling as the air kissed skin that had never known exposure. My boots crunched softly against the thick bed of hair on the barbershop floor, strands from seven other women, and far too many of my own.

Casey gave me a glance—quiet, knowing—but she didn’t say a word as I fell into line beside her. We were the last to join the others, all freshly shaved and silent, standing shoulder to shoulder along the far wall of the barbershop.

Then the door opened.

The warden strode in, her posture sharp, boots clicking with the weight of authority. Tall, grey-haired, face like carved marble. Her cold eyes scanned us one by one.

She stopped in front of each inmate, pausing, squinting, then giving a small nod before moving on. It was a ritual of approval, like she was inspecting livestock. I tried not to flinch when her eyes lingered on mine.

“Hm,” she murmured. “Clean. Sharp. Good.”

She moved on.

Razor stood near the back, arms folded, wearing a smug little smile like a chef surveying the aftermath of a grand meal. Her eyes lingered on me, and I could still feel the weight of her fingers ghosting over my scalp. My jaw clenched.

Finally, the warden gave a sharp nod. “Move them.”

The guards stepped forward and ordered us to form two lines. Wordlessly, we obeyed, filing out of the barbershop like new dolls off the production line.

The hallway was no quieter than before. In fact, it was worse now.

As we marched through the facility, our freshly buzzed heads marked us—fresh meat. The other inmates were waiting.

“Damn, look at the carrots on Red!”

“Someone shaved Rapunzel!”

“I’d cry too, girl!”

The catcalls rained down like stones. Laughter echoed off the walls. Fingers pointed. Some clapped mockingly. I stared straight ahead, heat rising in my cheeks even as the air on my bare scalp gave me chills.

Casey muttered, “It’ll pass.”

I wasn’t so sure.

We climbed two flights of stairs, the line moving slowly past rows of barred doors and curious eyes. Finally, we turned down a quieter wing, the taunts fading behind us, replaced by the low buzz of fluorescent lights.

The guards began calling out cell numbers.

“Inmate Wilde—Cell 3-A.”

Casey peeled away with one last glance.

The next few were called off quickly. Then—

“Morrigan—3-F.”

That was me.

A guard gestured me forward and I stepped out of line, walking down the row until I stood outside Cell 3-F. The barred door stood half-open, revealing a narrow space with dull white walls, a small barred window, a toilet behind a half-wall, and a bunk bed.

The top was unmade.

I climbed the short ladder, tossing the folded uniform and blanket from the mattress onto the foot of the bed. The springs groaned softly as I sat down, knees pulled up, arms folded tightly across my chest.

I exhaled.

It was quiet now.

The air still smelled faintly of disinfectant and old metal. The distant buzz of conversation in the block was muffled by thick walls.

I was alone. For now.

My scalp still tingled. I reached up instinctively—and stopped. My fingers hovered, then lightly brushed across the buzzed stubble. Short. Soft. Wrong.

I closed my eyes.

The footsteps came a few minutes later.

Louder. Closer.

My cellmate was about to arrive.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

I sat frozen on the top bunk, arms wrapped around my knees. A key turned in the lock with a heavy metallic click, followed by the creak of the cell door sliding open.

Boots.

Heavy. Unhurried. Confident.

I peeked over my knees, heart thudding.

It was her.

Valeria “Razor” Vega.

Her buzzcut glinted under the harsh overhead light, sharp cheekbones casting slight shadows, and the snake tattoo along her neck curled like it was watching me. She stepped in like the cell already belonged to her.

And maybe it did.

Her dark eyes landed on me immediately. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, well,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “Didn’t expect to have you all to myself so soon, Red.”

I stayed quiet, but my scalp tingled. I felt so exposed—even more than in that chair.

She tossed a folded prison shirt on the bottom bunk and started unbuttoning her overshirt, revealing lean muscle and more tattoos beneath. Her movements were calm, smooth, unbothered.

“You always sulk up there like a kicked puppy,” she asked, “or is that just for women who shaved you bald in front of a crowd?”

I flinched. My fingers curled tighter around my knees.

She laughed softly, turning her head as she caught the expression on my face. “Don’t look so shocked. Humiliation’s part of the fun.”

She said it so casually, like we were discussing cafeteria food.

“I don’t just enjoy shaving heads, sweetheart. I enjoy watching people break a little every time I do it. You? You cracked beautifully.”

I looked away, jaw tight.

She walked over to the tiny mirror above the sink and looked at herself for a moment, then filled a plastic cup with water. “I’ve shaved every kind of woman who’s come through here. Mouthy ones. Proud ones. Pretty ones. Doesn’t matter. They all end up in the chair. And they all leave it the same way—humiliated.”

She turned toward me again.

“And next month, you’ll be right back there. On schedule. Just like everyone else.”

My stomach dropped.

“You buzz everyone every month?” I managed.

Valeria grinned, sipping the water like it was wine. “Mandatory cuts. Every thirty days. Keeps us tidy—and keeps you all in your place.”

She tossed the empty cup in the bin and leaned her hip against the wall, arms folding casually.

“I like the monthly rush,” she said with a shrug. “All the inmates lining up like sheep. Some are resigned. Some still flinch. Either way, I get to remind them who’s in charge.”

Her eyes met mine again. She was watching me. Studying the tremble I tried to hide.

“You’ll be back in my chair before you know it, Red. And next time, I won’t go slow.”

I wanted to curse at her. Scream, cry—anything.

Instead, I looked down, lips pressed tight, throat burning.

She peeled back her sheets and sat on the bottom bunk, stretching out like a queen returning to her throne. Her voice, this time, was lower—mockingly sweet.

“Get comfy. We’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other.”

And with that, she rolled onto her side and gave me her back.

I stayed on the top bunk, pulse thudding, scalp still tingling from the clippers. The silence between us stretched out, but it wasn’t empty.

It was a promise.