Aurum
Richard slammed his fist on the kitchen table, rattling the dirty breakfast dishes. His face was flushed with anger, a rage that had been building for weeks. Across from him, Martha, his sixteen-year-old daughter, stared back with defiance, arms crossed, her long hair reaching her waist like a dark curtain over her shoulders. The argument had started over a bad grade at school, but it quickly snowballed into everything: sneaking out at night, lying, the mess in her room, the insolent tone that had become a permanent fixture in her voice.
“That’s it, Martha!” Richard roared, his voice bouncing off the walls. “I’m done putting up with your disrespect. You’re going to learn a lesson you won’t forget.”
Martha rolled her eyes, a gesture that only fueled her father’s fury. Richard took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. He’d tried everything—talks, punishments, taking away her phone. Nothing worked. But this time would be different. He’d spoken to Mike, an old friend from the neighborhood, a barber with steady hands and few words. Mike’s barbershop, a few blocks away, smelled of aftershave and bygone days, a place where razors still gleamed under dim lights. Richard knew he could count on him.
“You’re going to Mike’s barbershop,” he declared, pointing at her. “He knows what to do with you. And if you don’t go, I swear what comes next will be much worse. Your choice.”
Martha looked at him in disbelief, but deep down, she knew he wasn’t bluffing. There was something in his tone, a cold resolve, that made her swallow the retort on her tongue. Without a word, she grabbed her jacket and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Richard waited until the echo faded before pulling his phone from his pocket. He dialed Mike’s number and rubbed his forehead wearily as it rang.
“Mike, it’s Richard,” he said when his friend picked up. “My daughter’s on her way. She needs a serious punishment. Her hair’s long, down to her waist. I want you to cut it military-style: back and sides shaved to a zero, top to a two. If she resists, tie her to the chair and tape her mouth so she doesn’t scream. Do whatever it takes, but make sure she gets it.”
On the other end, Mike grunted in agreement. It wasn’t the first time Richard had asked for an odd favor, and though this was more extreme than usual, he didn’t question it. He hung up and returned to sharpening his razor, readying himself for what was coming.
The bell above the barbershop door jingled, announcing someone’s arrival. Mike looked up from the back, where he was cleaning a clipper. He was a sturdy man in his sixties, with gray hair and a faint scar slicing across his left eyebrow. A young girl stood in the doorway, her hair falling to her waist, catching the afternoon light. She matched Richard’s description perfectly. Not many teenage girls walked into his shop on a Sunday afternoon.
“You Richard’s daughter?” he asked gruffly, setting the clipper down.
The girl frowned, confused. “Richard? No, I… I just came to trim my ends and fix my bangs.”
Mike cut her off. He figured it was a clumsy attempt to dodge the punishment. Richard had warned him she might resist. With a firm gesture, he pointed to the barber chair, its red leather cracked and worn from years of use.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Let’s make this quick.”
She hesitated, but the authority in his voice unnerved her. She walked to the chair and sat, smoothing her hair over her shoulders. Mike wasted no time. He grabbed a black cape and fastened it around her neck with a sharp snap. Then, without a word, he spun the chair so she faced away from the mirror. She tried to turn her head, but he stopped her with a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Wait, I just want—” she began, but Mike had already switched on the clippers. The electric hum filled the air, and before she could grasp what was happening, she felt the cold bite of metal against her nape.
“Stop! What are you doing?” she cried, lurching forward. Panic clawed at her throat as a lock of her hair drifted to the floor like a fallen leaf.
Mike didn’t flinch. Richard had said she might fight, and he was ready. With one strong hand, he pushed her back into the chair and, with the other, pulled a roll of duct tape from a drawer. She thrashed, kicking at the air, but she was no match for his strength. In a swift motion, he slapped a strip of tape over her mouth, muffling her screams. Her eyes widened, brimming with tears and terror, as her hands clawed uselessly at the chair’s arms.
“Don’t move, Martha,” Mike said, his tone as cold as the clipper’s steel. “This is for your own good.”
Holding her steady, he ran the clippers up her nape again. The buzzing was deafening, and strands of hair cascaded to the floor, piling up around the chair. She sobbed beneath the tape, her body shaking as her long locks vanished with each pass. The clippers climbed the sides, leaving her skin bare, pale, and exposed under the shop’s lights. The metal’s chill clashed with the heat of her tears, which streamed down her cheeks and soaked into the cape.
Mike worked with military precision. The back and sides were shaved to a zero, the skin smooth and vulnerable to the air. Then he swapped the clippers for a finer setting, a number two, and tackled the top. What remained was a mere shadow of its former glory—a stiff, short brush that didn’t even reach her forehead. She tried to scream again, but the tape reduced her voice to a choked whimper. Each pass stripped away her identity, a brutal unraveling that left her unrecognizable.
When he finished, Mike stepped back to survey his work. The girl in the chair bore no resemblance to the one who’d walked in. The long, glossy hair was gone, replaced by a severe, almost cruel cut. Satisfied, he ripped the tape from her mouth with a quick yank. She gasped, gulping air, tears still spilling down her face.
“I’m not Martha,” she whispered between sobs, her voice shattered. “My name’s Sarah.”
Mike froze, clippers still in hand. For the first time that afternoon, doubt flickered across his face. “What did you say?” he asked, but she was already stumbling to her feet, the cape falling to the floor.
“What have you done to me?” Sarah screamed, hands flying to her head. The rough stubble where her hair once flowed tore another sob from her throat. “I’m going to report you! This isn’t over!”
She staggered to the door, tripping over her own feet, and bolted into the street without looking back. Mike barely had time to process it. He was sweeping up the hair when the bell jingled again. He looked up, expecting a regular, but instead saw a sixteen-year-old girl with hair down to her waist and a resigned look on her face.
“Hi,” she said, her voice low but clear. “I’m Martha, Richard’s daughter. He told me to come here…”
Mike stood still, broom in hand. He glanced at Martha, then at the pile of hair he’d just swept, and felt the ground drop out from under him.
