Part One
The late afternoon sun slanted across the dusty streets of the small town, painting the peeling facades and oldtile roofs with streaks of orange. Ellen, seventeen, walked briskly along the sidewalk, dragging her two younger brothers, Luke, twelve, and Matt, eleven, by the hand. The boys shuffled reluctantly, half-complaining as the heat plastered their T-shirts to their backs. Their father, James, had given them a clear mission that morning: head to Rufus’s barbershop, a relic of a bygone era, and return with their hair neatly trimmed before dinner. Ellen, as the eldest, was in charge.
Before they left, James had pulled his phone from the pocket of his work jeans and, with the stern tone he used when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, dialed the barbershop. Ellen overheard him from the kitchen as she scrubbed the lunch dishes.
“Rufus, it’s James. I’m sending the kids over for haircuts. The two youngest, Luke and Matt. Make sure they’re cropped short, you hear? None of that shaggy mess they’ve got now. I’m counting on you.”
There was a pause as Rufus grumbled something Ellen couldn’t make out. Her father nodded, hung up, and handed her a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
“Take them and make sure Rufus does what I said. Don’t let him pull any funny business.”
Ellen sighed. She wasn’t thrilled about spending her afternoon in the barbershop with the grumpy old man, but there was no arguing with her dad. Now, as they trudged down Main Street, Luke whined for the umpteenth time.
“I don’t get why we need haircuts again. It’s barely grown!”
“Shut it, Luke,” Ellen snapped, adjusting the high ponytail that held her long, chestnut hair. “Dad said you look like a hobo, and he’s right.”
Matt, quieter, just kicked a loose pebble along the sidewalk, resigned to his fate. When they reached the barbershop, a faded wooden sign hung above the door: “Rufus’s Barbershop – Men’s Cuts.” The dusty storefront displayed an antique straight razor and a jar of aftershave like museum pieces. Ellen pushed the door open, and a rusty bell jingled overhead.
The air inside smelled of old leather, pomade, and a faint whiff of tobacco. Yellowed photos of men with 1960s haircuts lined the walls, and a lazy fan hummed in the corner. Rufus, a burly man in his sixties with gray hair buzzed flat and a stained white apron, sat in a chair reading a newspaper. He looked up as they entered and scowled.
“What do you want?” he growled, as if their presence offended him.
“My dad called earlier,” Ellen said, crossing her arms. “James. He said we’re here to get my brothers, Luke and Matt, haircuts.”
Rufus squinted, folding the paper and tossing it onto a cluttered table of old magazines. He stood with a grunt, as if the effort pained him, and jabbed a gnarled finger at the boys.
“So you’re James’s kids, huh? Fine, fine. Get in the chair, let’s get you looking proper. And you,” he added, glaring at Ellen with a mix of disdain and authority, “stay there and don’t get in my way.”
Luke and Matt exchanged a look of resignation and shuffled toward the barber’s chair—a red leather throne with metal armrests that looked like it belonged in a vintage film. Rufus grabbed a black cape, snapped it open with a sharp flick, and draped it over Luke, tying it tight around his neck.
“Your dad said short, so no whining,” he declared, snatching a clipper from the counter. The buzz filled the room as he ran the blade over Luke’s head, leaving a trail of short, even stubble. Luke pressed his lips together but stayed silent. In under ten minutes, Rufus finished, yanking the cape off with a dramatic flourish.
“Next,” he barked, pointing at Matt.
The process repeated with the same ruthless efficiency. Matt barely flinched as clumps of dark hair tumbled to the floor. Rufus worked with precise, almost mechanical motions, muttering to himself about how kids today didn’t appreciate a decent cut. When he was done, he smacked both boys on the back of the neck and gestured to a large mirror on the wall.
“Look at that. Clean as a whistle. That’s a man’s haircut.”
Ellen, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, gave a half-hearted nod. The boys looked fine, though they resembled fresh army recruits. She was about to pull out the twenty when Rufus turned to her with a look that brooked no argument.
“Now you, up in the chair.”
Ellen blinked, caught off guard.
“Me? No, I’m not here for a haircut. I just brought my brothers.”
Rufus snorted, as if her response were a personal insult.
“Your dad said loud and clear on the phone: ‘Make sure they’re cropped short.’ There’s three of you, ain’t there? Three cuts. Don’t waste my time, girl. Up.”
“No!” Ellen shot back, raising her voice. “He said Luke and Matt, my brothers. I’m the oldest, I’m just here to bring them.”
Rufus folded his arms, puffing out his chest beneath the apron.
“You telling me I don’t know what your dad said? He called and gave me clear orders. Three kids, three cuts. You got a problem, call him and let him tell me himself. Until then, get in the chair.”
Ellen’s stomach twisted. She yanked her phone from her jeans pocket and dialed her dad, but it went straight to voicemail. He was probably elbow-deep in a tractor engine at the garage. Luke smirked at her from the mirror, and Matt’s eyes widened.
“I’m not cutting my hair,” she insisted, shoving the phone back in her pocket. “This is a mistake.”
Rufus stepped closer, his shadow looming over the worn tile floor.
“Listen, kid, I run this shop. If your dad says haircuts, you get haircuts. Don’t like it? Leave and explain to him why I didn’t do my job. But while you’re here, you do what I say. Get in the chair, now!”
Ellen hesitated. She knew arguing with Rufus was like talking to a brick wall, and the thought of facing her dad’s wrath for disobeying outweighed the afternoon heat. With a huff, she stomped to the chair and sat down, stiff as a board.
“Just a trim, then,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Nothing short.”
Rufus barked a dry laugh.
“A trim? We don’t do ‘trims’ here. Your dad said cropped short, and that’s what he’s getting.” He flung the black cape over her with a rough snap, tying it so tight it grazed her skin. “Sit still and shut up.”
Before she could protest, the clippers hummed to life. A shiver ran down her spine as the cold metal touched her nape. With a swift, careless swipe, Rufus dragged the blade upward, sending a long strand of chestnut hair tumbling to the floor. Ellen’s eyes widened, and she jerked her head, but Rufus smacked her shoulder hard.
“Hold still! You want me to nick an ear or what?”
“Stop!” she yelled, but Rufus didn’t pause. The clippers swept again, this time along the right side, shearing off another lock that floated down like a feather onto the cape. Ellen felt the cool air hit her exposed skin as her ponytail—her pride—crumbled piece by piece. She glanced at the mirror and watched it vanish.
Luke snickered from the back, and Matt covered his mouth, but Rufus paid them no mind. His big, calloused hands wielded the clippers with brutal precision, buzzing up the sides, leaving barely a millimeter of stubble. Ellen clenched her fists under the cape, helpless, as he continued. When he finished the sides, he grabbed scissors from the counter and hacked at the top, slicing off the longer strands without hesitation.
“This is a mess,” Ellen mumbled, but Rufus ignored her.
“A mess is what you had before,” he snapped, snipping another chunk with a sharp clack. “Hippie mop. Now you’ll look respectable.”
The scissors’ relentless “snip, snip” echoed in the empty shop. Rufus tilted her head side to side like a rag doll, working with near-obsessive focus. When he was done with the top, he switched back to the clippers to even the edges, running them over her temples and around her ears with a steady buzz. Hair rained down, piling up around the chair in a brown heap.
Finally, he switched off the clippers and stepped back, smirking with satisfaction. He brushed the stray hairs from her neck with a small broom, then whipped off the cape with a theatrical flourish.
“Done. Look at yourself. That’s a proper cut.”
Ellen stared into the mirror, frozen. Her hair, once nearly waist-length, was now a military buzz—short on the sides, slightly longer on top. She touched her head with trembling fingers, feeling the rough, unfamiliar texture. She looked like a boy, or worse, a recruit. Tears stung her eyes, but she swallowed them. She wouldn’t give Rufus the satisfaction.
“What do you think, huh?” he asked, arms crossed triumphantly. “Your dad’ll be proud.”
Ellen stood without a word, tossing the twenty onto the counter.
“Let’s go,” she said to her brothers, her voice tight.
Luke and Matt followed quietly, though Luke couldn’t hide a mischievous grin. As they left, Rufus shouted after them, “Tell James Rufus always delivers!”
The bell jingled as the door shut, and Ellen walked home with her head down, the sun burning her bare nape.
Part Two
The sun had dipped below the hills by the time Ellen got home, Luke and Matt trailing cautiously behind. She stormed inside, ignoring Luke’s giggles and Matt’s wide-eyed stare. James was in the living room, watching football with a beer in hand. When he saw her, he set the bottle down and frowned.
“What the hell happened to your head?” he asked, standing up.
Ellen clenched her jaw, the cool air prickling her freshly shorn scalp.
“Rufus happened. He said you told him to cut all three of us. Wouldn’t listen when I said no.”
James blinked, then cursed under his breath.
“That stubborn old mule… I told him Luke and Matt, clear as day. I’m calling him right now!”
But Ellen wasn’t listening. She bolted upstairs, slammed her bedroom door, and faced the full-length mirror behind it. The reflection showed a stranger: sides buzzed, top barely an inch long, all jagged and rough. She touched her nape, red from the clippers, and something inside her snapped. It wasn’t just the hair—it was the humiliation, Rufus’s arrogance, the loss of control. Tears welled up, but she swiped them away.
Then a wild idea hit her. If Rufus wanted to play king of the barbershop, she’d give him something to remember. She wouldn’t let him have the last laugh. Grabbing an old scarf from her desk, she tied it around her neck like a makeshift bandana and raced downstairs.
“Where are you going?” James called, phone in hand, dialing Rufus.
“Back in a bit,” she said, not breaking stride.
Luke and Matt watched from the hallway but didn’t dare follow. Ellen stepped into the night, the chill brushing her bare head, and marched back to the barbershop with purpose. The bell clanged as she shoved the door open, and Rufus looked up from sweeping the floor with a worn broom.
“What now?” he growled, leaning on the handle. “Here to complain again?”
Ellen strode to the counter, standing tall.
“No. I want you to shave my head. All of it. Bald.”
Rufus stopped sweeping and stared as if she’d lost her mind along with her hair.
“What’re you saying, girl? You gone crazy?”
“I said shave my head,” she repeated, voice steady. “You started it, now finish it. Completely bald.”
He let out a harsh laugh, but when she didn’t budge, his face shifted to a mix of disbelief and challenge.
“You sure? I ain’t hearing sobs after.”
“Sure,” she said, plopping into the chair uninvited. “Do it.”
Rufus huffed, propped the broom against the wall, and lumbered over, giving her a moment to back out. She didn’t. He snapped the black cape open and tied it around her neck.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered, grabbing the clippers. He set the blade to its lowest guard—a merciless zero—and flipped the switch. The buzz filled the shop like an encore from the afternoon.
“Head down,” he ordered, pushing her nape forward. Ellen complied, staring at the floor as the cold metal grazed her skin. Rufus started at the base, dragging upward in straight, firm lines, stripping away the scant inches left. Hair fell in tiny tufts, barely noticeable against the earlier pile. The clippers vibrated against her skull, cold and relentless, and Ellen shut her eyes, focusing on the hum.
Rufus worked with the same domineering precision, though a hint of curiosity crept into his motions. He buzzed the sides, erasing the last wisps around her ears, then tackled the top. Each pass left her scalp bare, smooth, and exposed under the dim light. The night air hit every newly shaved inch, sending a shiver down her spine.
When the clippers fell silent, Rufus set them aside and reached for an old straight razor, its wooden handle worn smooth. He sharpened it against a leather strop hanging on the wall.
“Now the real deal,” he said, a glint of glee in his eyes. “You want bald, we shave.”
Ellen nodded, though her stomach tightened. Rufus slathered a thick, white cream over her head, spreading it with rough, quick fingers. The sharp menthol scent filled the air. Then, razor in hand, he began to scrape.
The sound was softer now—a gentle rasp, almost soothing—as the blade skimmed the cream away, leaving a glossy trail. Rufus tilted her head like a sculptor, turning it side to side to reach every angle. He started at her forehead, gliding down to her temples, then circled her ears with short, exact strokes. The razor swept over and over, wiping out any hint of stubble the clippers missed. The steel was cold against her skin, but Rufus’s grip was steady, almost cruel in its confidence.
She felt the back of her head open up, her scalp bare under his palm as he checked his work. He grunted now and then, appraising his masterpiece, and finished with a long sweep from crown to nape. Grabbing a hot towel from the warmer, he wrung it out with a crack and wiped her head clean, leaving it gleaming.
“There,” he said, yanking off the cape with a flourish. “Look at that.”
Ellen lifted her eyes to the mirror. Her head was a perfect, smooth sphere, shining under the fluorescent light. She ran her fingers over it, stunned by the silkiness and the odd sensation of nothing to grab. No trace of her long hair or the buzz cut remained—just her, raw and transformed.
Rufus crossed his arms, eyeing her with a mix of pride and mockery.
“What do you think, huh? No one’s gonna say you lack guts now.”
Ellen didn’t answer. She stood, slapped a crumpled five-dollar bill—the last of her cash—on the counter, and walked out without a backward glance. The bell jingled one last time, and the night air stung her naked scalp like an icy kiss. She headed home with her chin up, knowing James would flip and Luke would laugh for days. But for the first time in hours, she felt she’d reclaimed something—not her hair, but her power.
