Rivvy
“The Ingenuous Salon”
Selena had always hated her wavy hair.
Not curly enough to be glamorous. Not straight enough to behave. Just a frizzy, poofy, unmanageable mess she waged war against every morning. She straightened it until it gleamed, scorched from heat and hair spray, yet still puffing out by noon. She dreamed of glassy strands and polished ends—of being one of those girls who looked sleek without trying.
So when she saw the sign outside an unfamiliar building that read The Ingenuous Salon, she smiled.
“They must’ve meant ingenious,” she mumbled, stepping inside.
The reception area was clinical, clean—but with an oddly sterile scent, like a cross between hair dye and dentist’s polish. She shrugged it off. The woman at the counter beamed at her with too-white teeth and thick glasses that magnified her eyes.
“First time?”
“Yeah. I just want something sleek. Polished. Maybe layers, long blowout, something refined.”
“Of course,” the woman said, nodding and writing on a clipboard. “You’re in for the full transformation.”
Selena smiled. That sounded perfect.
–
The chair reclined—too far back, too fast.
Not like a salon chair. Not even like a dentist’s. This one tilted with an electric hum, making Selena’s stomach flip as she slid slightly down the padded vinyl. She felt exposed, splayed out under the bright white light above, the room too quiet except for the soft hiss of some unseen ventilation.
“Uh… is this part of the haircut?” she asked, trying to laugh lightly.
The stylist—if that’s what she even was—offered a calm, clinical smile and adjusted a rigid plastic collar around Selena’s neck. It clicked into place with a snap, holding her head still. Then came a curved visor, swinging down over her face like a welding shield, tinted enough to blur her peripheral vision. She felt her heart flutter.
“What’s this?” she repeated, voice tight now.
“Standard prep,” the woman replied breezily. “Just relax, sweetheart.”
Relax? Selena tensed. She tried to tilt her head, but the collar held her firmly. Her fingers twitched on the armrests. Something felt wrong.
And then—
Bzzzzzzzzzz.
A low, unmistakable hum. Her body reacted before her mind did.
She knew that sound. Clippers. Close. Near her skin.
“Wait—wait, is that—?”
Before she could finish, she felt it: the cold, blunt edge of metal against the nape of her neck, followed by the deep, vibrating tickle of hair being buzzed away.
A gasp escaped her lips.
It was instant. The first pass stripped away a clean strip just above her hairline. She couldn’t see it, but she felt it—felt air where there was none before, felt shorn skin exposed, her neck prickling. Panic and heat bloomed in her chest.
“Hey! I didn’t say—! I didn’t ask for—!”
But her voice was muffled under the shield, and before she could twist or resist, the buzzing swept back and forth, methodical, efficient, ruthless. She tried to pull up her hands, but suddenly there were soft restraints across her wrists, holding her gently—too gently—in place.
“Shhh, you’ll thank us,” the woman said soothingly, like she was comforting a child during a vaccination. “You’ve been fighting this for too long.”
Selena’s throat tightened. Her scalp burned with confusion—and something else. That shiver again. That heat. That awful, mortifying flutter between her thighs. She liked the feeling. The clippers. The restraint. The way she couldn’t stop it.
She hated that she liked it.
Then, just as she opened her mouth to scream, a set of cold metal tools pressed against her molars.
“Mmmf!”
Her jaw locked open involuntarily. Something clicked. Something tightened.
“Oh good, you’re still,” said a different voice—someone she hadn’t seen, standing over her now. “We’re just cleaning your teeth, dear. Might do a little realignment while we’re at it.”
Realignment?
Selena’s eyes widened. The ceiling mirror above gave her a warped, hazy glimpse of her face—mouth pried open, cheeks stretched awkwardly, eyes wide behind the smudged visor. And her hair…
Her silky waves were being sectioned crudely, yanked upward in tight clamps. She could just barely make out the buzzed undercut underneath. A wide, naked swath of bare nape, impossibly short, reduced to brown shadowy fuzz.
The cool air kissed it again.
She felt everything.
A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.
Her body was betraying her.
Her thighs clenched. She was trembling now, not from fear, but from shameful anticipation. She wanted them to stop. She wanted more.
Metal settled against her teeth again.
Click. Snap. Tighten.
She whimpered when she felt it—wires hugging her upper row of teeth. Something foreign. Rigid. Her lips had to stretch wider to accommodate it. Then came the bottom set. Another round of pressure.
Her mouth felt caged.
The visor lifted.
The chair rose slowly.
And there she was.
Staring at her own reflection.
Huge, dark curls puffed out wildly from her scalp—natural curls she hadn’t seen in years, now styled into a full, round afro. It should’ve looked ridiculous. It did look ridiculous. Especially with the thick plastic glasses perched on her nose, giving her a doe-eyed, too-young appearance.
But beneath it all—just hidden unless she moved the curls aside—was the gleaming, tight clippered undercut. A secret. A violation. A thrill.
And in her mouth: braces. Shiny, unmistakable, humiliating braces. They caught the light when she gasped softly. Her tongue felt awkward against the metal. She tried to close her lips politely and couldn’t. A slight lisp crept in before she even spoke.
Her stomach twisted. Her scalp tingled.
And her hand… without thinking, it reached behind her curls, fingertips brushing the clean, bare stubble at her nape. Her breath caught.
God.
No. No, no, no.
She couldn’t enjoy this. This wasn’t her. This was humiliating. This was wrong.
But when she looked again in the mirror, her eyes had a glassy haze. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips trembled slightly around the braces. She didn’t look sleek or polished.
She looked undone.
And somewhere inside her…
…she loved it.
“What… what is this place?” she whispered hoarsely.
The woman behind her stepped close and patted her shoulder gently.
“This, Selena, is the Ingenuous Salon. We don’t craft who you pretend to be.”
She leaned in, voice low in her ear.
“We expose who you really are.”
