Headshave Trap

 

The emotional wreckage of my last breakup had left me drifting in a gray, static void for eight agonizing months. My career was stalling, my apartment felt like a tomb, and the ghost of rejection haunted every corner of my mind. Desperate to snap the spell of isolation, I bypassed the sterile, mainstream dating apps and ventured into the digital underbelly—a niche, hushed website dedicated strictly to unconventional urges and intense personal fantasies. I figured a radical distraction might be the only cure for my stagnation.

Within minutes of creating a profile, my inbox blinked.

Riya: Hi. Are you up for some fun?

Her profile was a vacuum—no photos, no bio, just a stark, empty gray silhouette. In my state of reckless loneliness, the anonymity wasn't a warning sign; it was an invitation.

"Sure," I typed back, the keys clicking loudly in my quiet room. "How about Saturday at Kempfort Mall? 7 PM?"

Ten seconds later, the screen flashed: Sure. See you on Saturday.

When Saturday arrived, the winter air was crisp, and the mall hummed with the standard weekend crowd. I stood near the main entrance, arriving ten minutes late to mask my eagerness. I scanned the sea of passing faces, wondering what kind of woman hid behind a blank profile on a fantasy forum.

"Ron, correct?"

I turned. A strikingly beautiful woman stood before me. She had piercing, dark eyes, a sharp jawline, and thick, cascading raven hair that fell past her shoulders.

"Yes," I breathed, momentarily struck by her elegance. "You must be Riya."

"In the flesh," she smiled, a look that was both warm and calculation-intense.

We walked to a quiet cafe on the upper tier. As the coffee brewed, the conversation flowed with surprising ease. I found myself unburdening my soul, telling her about the devastating breakup that had paralyzed my life. She listened with intense, unblinking focus, nodding at the right moments.

"And you?" I asked, leaning in. "What brings a beautiful woman like you to a site like that?"

Riya swirled her spoon, her gaze dropping to the dark liquid. "I'm looking for a very specific kind of man. Someone who won't run away when they discover my true nature. Most men find my fetish completely insane. They panic. They leave."

"Try me," I said, offering a confident, gentlemanly smile. "I'm not easily scared."

She laughed, a rich, melodic sound that sent a strange shiver down my spine. "No, Ron. Not yet. I don’t want to ruin the mood so soon. Let’s just enjoy the evening."

By the time we left the mall, the night had grown cold. Riya looked at me through her long lashes. "Would you mind dropping me home? I live just a few blocks away."

"Of course," I said.

Her residence was an expansive, modern house nestled in a secluded, affluent neighborhood. It was vast—clothed in marble and shadow, making my own apartment look like a cramped cell. As we stood on the porch, she turned to me, her fingers lingering near her keys. "Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee? It’s freezing out here."

Excitement flared in my chest. "I’d love to."

Inside, the house was excessively quiet. I settled into a heavy wooden chair in the living room while she disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned with two steaming mugs, her demeanor had shifted. The casual charm was gone, replaced by a hyper-focused, trembling intensity.

"It’s time I told you my fantasy, Ron," she whispered, sitting directly across from me. Her eyes locked onto my scalp. "I have an overwhelming, insatiable urge to perform a complete headshave on men. I crave the transformation. I crave the feel of bare skin. Every single man I’ve ever been with called me a monster and walked out the moment I brought it up."

She looked down, her shoulders sinking. "It’s okay if you want to leave now. I’m used to it."

I looked at her, then down at my coffee. My heart hammered against my ribs, but a strange, reckless logic took over. I had no one to impress anymore. My hair was just hair. If submitting to a radical headshave was the price of admission to this captivating woman's world, why not? Besides, a fresh start was exactly what I had been looking for.

"Your fantasy isn't crazy, Riya," I said softly.

She froze, staring at me like a statue. "Seriously? You’re not just saying that?"

"If a total headshave makes you happy, do it," I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I was actually thinking about getting a dramatic haircut anyway. A smooth shaved head sounds like a wild way to start over. Let’s see you in action."

Riya literally jumped off her chair. She threw her arms around my neck, planting a fierce, desperate kiss on my lips. "Shall we do it right now?" she gasped, her eyes dilated with pure adrenaline.

"Nothing to wait for," I replied, caught up in her manic euphoria. "Shave my head."

She flew out of the room and returned moments later carrying a heavy, polished silver box. "Finish your coffee," she instructed, her voice breathless. "Then meet me in the master bathroom."

The bathroom was a sterile oasis of white tile, chrome, and massive, brightly lit mirrors. In the center of the room, Riya had placed a solitary wooden stool directly in front of the sink.

"Take off your shirt," she murmured, her hands already trembling as she unlocked the silver box. "I don’t want the thick, sheared hair ruining your clothes. There’s going to be a lot of it."

I pulled my shirt over my head, feeling suddenly vulnerable in the bright light. I sat on the stool, facing the mirror. Riya stepped up behind me, snapping a heavy black barber’s cape around my neck, securing it tightly.

She picked up a misting bottle and began soaking my thick, dark hair. Her fingers massaged my scalp with fierce pressure. "You have such beautiful, thick hair, Ron," she purred. "This is going to be an incredible headshaving experience."

"Glad I can provide the entertainment," I joked weakly, watching my reflection.

Then, the mood shifted to absolute gravity. From the silver box, Riya extracted a heavy, professional straight razor. The steel caught the harsh bathroom light, gleaming with terrifying sharpness. She loaded a brand-new, sterile blade into the mechanism with practiced, lethal precision. A grim, ecstatic smile spread across her face.

"I hope you’re ready for a genuinely smooth shaved head," she whispered.

"If we're doing this, make it as bare as possible," I replied, trying to anchor my mounting anxiety.

She nodded, gently but firmly forcing my head forward over the porcelain sink. I could hear the heavy thud of my own heartbeat. Riya coated the top of my head in a rich, dense lather. Then, I felt the cold, unforgiving edge of the straight razor press firmly against the crown of my skull.

Scritch.

The sound of the blade slicing through my dense hair was incredibly loud in the enclosed room. She took her first long, sweeping glide from the crown down toward my forehead, harvesting a massive swath of hair. Then, she stopped.

Nervous, I lifted my gaze to the mirror. Riya had gathered the thick clump of freshly sheared hair from the razor blade. Her eyes were tightly closed, her face turned toward her hand as she deeply inhaled the scent of my cut hair. A wave of cold dread washed over me. This wasn't just a quirky kink; this was a deep, consuming obsession.

She opened her eyes, caught me staring in the mirror, and violently flicked the hair into the sink. Without a word, she pressed her bare fingers onto the newly exposed, naked skin of my scalp, rubbing the patch fiercely. Satisfied, she pushed my head back down over the sink with immense force.

The headshave officially began in earnest.

Riya became a whirlwind of manic motion. She pressed her body tightly against mine with every single stroke, using her weight to anchor my movements as the straight razor scraped across my skull. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The white porcelain sink began to fill with heavy drifts of dark hair.

Suddenly, she splashed a cup of ice-cold water over my head to clear the foam. I violently shivered, the shock hitting my nervous system.

She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "What’s the matter, baby? Is the water too cold for your freshly exposed, shaved scalp?"

"It's freezing," I muttered, gripping the edges of the stool.

"Good. It makes the skin tight for the razor," she snapped, her tone suddenly clinical and detached.

She re-lathered and continued the relentless headshaving process. The entire top of my head was stripped bare, leaving a stark, pale island of skin surrounded by the remaining hair on the sides and back. Riya’s movements grew faster, almost frantic. She attacked the back of my neck, running the straight razor with terrifying speed. Thick clumps of hair rained down onto the black cape and slid into the basin.

I was too terrified to move. The manic, vacant look on her face as she occasionally paused to smell the pile of hair in the sink paralyzed me. After stripping the back, she moved to the sides, ruthlessly clearing the hair around my ears until there was nothing left.

I raised my head to look in the mirror. I was entirely bald, but my head looked chaotic—slathered in leftover foam, blood-flecked water, and stray, loose hairs clinging to the skin.

"We're not done," Riya hissed, eyeing my reflection.

Instead of wiping my head with a towel, she applied a fresh layer of slick shaving oil. She raised the straight razor again, performing a meticulous, multi-directional pass. She scraped against the grain, over and over, at least three more times, chasing a level of perfection that bordered on the supernatural.

Finally, she took a dry silk cloth and wiped my head. The fabric didn't catch or drag on a single microscopic follicle; it slid across my scalp like ice on glass.

"Perfect," she whispered, her eyes wide. "A perfectly smooth shaved head."

I reached up and touched my own skull. The sensation was profoundly shocking. It felt like polished marble, completely alien and entirely exposed.

"It's too late for you to drive home," Riya said, her voice dropping back into a sultry, purring register. "Stay the night."

Exhausted, overwhelmed, and dazed by my missing hair, I didn't argue. I rinsed off the stray hairs in the shower, marveling at the bizarre sensation of water hitting a completely bald dome, and walked out to the living room.

"In here, baby. I made the bed," her voice called from the darkness of the master bedroom.

I walked in to find her lounging in a sheer nightdress. Under any other circumstance, it would have been highly alluring, but my survival instincts were finally waking up. I slipped under the covers, completely drained. "I'm too tired, Riya. I just need to sleep."

She crawled over to me, running her soft palms across my smooth shaved head, savoring the bare friction. "Sure, baby. Sleep."

I rolled onto my stomach, buried my face in the pillow, and let her rub my naked scalp until I drifted into a deep, heavy slumber.

Hours later, in the dead of night, a sharp tug woke me. I blinked through the darkness, half-asleep. Riya was hovering over me, her eyes reflecting the moonlight.

"I can't sleep," she whispered, her breath hot against my neck. "I need to shave more."

I groaned, completely exhausted, completely misjudging the danger. I tilted my bald head toward her. "Baby... look at me. Do you honestly think you left a single, solitary hair on this skull? It's completely bare."

"I know your head is a smooth shaved head," she murmured, a manic edge returning to her voice. "But I want to shave your bald head again. Please."

"Fine," I mumbled, too tired to fight. I shifted my weight and laid my head directly onto her lap. "Just do it here. I'm not sitting back on that stool."

She showered my bare scalp with frantic kisses. "Thank you, thank you."

She reached over to the nightstand, where she had already prepared a bowl of lather and her trusted straight razor. As I lay there, closing my eyes, I felt the cold blade begin to glide in reverse—from the nape of my neck up to the crown. The rhythmic scraping was strangely hypnotic, and within minutes, I fell back into a deep, comatose sleep.

The morning sun flooded the bedroom. I opened my eyes, the sheets feeling strangely coarse against my skin. The spot next to me was empty.

"Riya?" I called out, my voice sounding hollow.

"I'm in the kitchen, baby!" her voice echoed cheerfully. "Get freshen up and come have breakfast!"

I smiled, stretching, thinking that perhaps the madness of the previous night was just an extreme manifestation of her passion. I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror to inspect my new, aerodynamic look.

The breath caught violently in my throat. A cold shock of pure horror paralyzed my muscles.

The person staring back at me wasn't me. It wasn't just that I had a smooth shaved head. Riya hadn't stopped at my scalp while I slept on her lap.

My thick beard was entirely gone. My mustache was erased. Even my eyebrows had been meticulously, flawlessly scraped away with the straight razor. My entire head and face were a singular, continuous, uniform sphere of blindingly pale, naked flesh. I looked like a horrifying, featureless egg.

Storming out of the bathroom, my heart pounding with rage, I confronted her in the kitchen. "What the hell did you do to my face?!" I screamed. "How am I supposed to go to work like this? How am I supposed to live?!"

Riya was standing by the stove, holding a spatula. She turned around slowly. The cheerful housewife persona shattered instantly, replaced by the deep, terrifying vacancy of a true predator.

"You slept so beautifully, Ron," she said, her voice dropping to a chillingly calm monotone. "But your face had so much hair. The straight razor on a bald head wasn't enough anymore. I needed to harvest more. I couldn't stop myself."

"I'm leaving," I shook out, backing away toward the front door.

Riya raised her head, the scary, obsessive look completely dominating her features. She pointed the spatula at me.

"Baby, you aren't going anywhere," she whispered, her smile completely devoid of warmth. "From now on, you stay here with me. I will perform a headshave on you every single day. You will keep serving me with your hair. Your body belongs to me now."

In that horrific moment, the mystery of the website, the blank profile, and her vanished ex-partners clicked into place. I didn't care that I was naked from the waist up or that I looked completely insane. I grabbed my keys, bolted out the front door, sprinted to my car, and drove away, never looking back.

Months passed. I fled the state entirely, taking a remote job in a completely different part of the country. It took a long time for my eyebrows and beard to return, and for a solid year, I kept my hair grown out as long as humanly possible, terrified of ever seeing a razor again.

Eventually, the trauma began to dull. The crushing weight of loneliness returned, creeping back into my quiet apartment. One evening, sitting on my couch, I stared at my phone, debating whether I should dare open a dating app again.

Suddenly, the phone buzzed violently in my palm.

A notification popped up from an unknown, untraceable number. My blood turned to absolute ice as I read the text:

Hi Baby. Show me your hair.

Headshave for Fresh start

 

Four years. One thousand, four hundred and sixty days. Apparently, that is the exact amount of time it takes to realize you don’t know someone at all.

When Priya slammed the door, the finality of the sound echoed in my chest. The argument had been a hurricane of bitter words and uncovered resentments, leaving me entirely hollowed out. I was suffocating. I couldn’t think straight, my vision blurring with a volatile mixture of intense anger and profound grief.

I found myself on the bustling city footpath, my feet moving forward without a destination. The world around me shifted into a blur of neon lights and rushing strangers, while my mind cruelly looped memories of her—our first anniversary, her laugh, the way she used to twist her hair around her finger. It was making me sick. I needed to escape the heavy, suffocating weight of my past. I needed a radical, permanent reset.

After twenty minutes of aimless walking, the familiar, warm glow of a neon sign caught my eye: Lilly’s Barber Emporium.

Lilly. She was a breath of fresh air in a cramped world. Striking, fiercely independent, and possessing a sharp, witty humor, she had been a close friend for two years. Truth be told, if I hadn’t been locked into a four-year relationship with Priya, I would have asked Lilly out a long time ago. But I had played the loyal boyfriend, keeping our bond strictly platonic.

I pushed the heavy glass door open, the familiar scent of sandalwood, bay rum, and premium shaving cream instantly washing over me.

Lilly was alone, sweeping dark locks of hair from the polished hardwood floor. When the bell jingled, she looked up, her face instantly lighting up with a radiant, genuine smile. She genuinely loved having me around. But as her eyes locked onto mine, her smile faltered. The raw, jagged grief on my face was impossible to hide.

"Hey," she said softly, setting the broom aside. "Everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I collapsed into one of her heavy, vintage leather salon chairs, staring blankly at my reflection in the massive mirror. "Priya and I are over," I choked out, the words tasting like ash. "It’s completely done."

Lilly’s expression softened into deep empathy. She stepped up behind the chair, her hands resting gently on my shoulders. She began rubbing my shoulders, her warm, grounding touch trying to dissolve the knots of tension locked in my muscles.

"I am so sorry," she whispered calmly near my ear. "She didn't deserve you anyway. Is there anything—absolutely anything—I can do to make you feel better right now?"

I stared at the thick, wavy hair on my head. Priya had loved my hair. She used to run her fingers through it, controlling me, defining me. Suddenly, I loathed it. I wanted it gone. I wanted a physical manifestation of purging her from my life.

"Can you shave my head?" I asked, my voice deadly serious.

Lilly startled, her hands freezing on my shoulders. She stepped around to face me, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "What? No. You are heartbroken, angry, and absolutely not thinking straight. I am not going to let you do something rash. I will not shave your head, especially not today."

A stubborn, defiant fire lit up inside me. I gripped the armrests. "It’s okay. If you won't do it, I’ll just walk down the block to the next barber and get my head shaved there."

"Wait, stop!" Lilly snapped, stepping in front of me to block my exit. She stared deep into my eyes, searching for compliance but finding only unwavering resolve. She let out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine. If a total headshave is truly what you want to numb the pain, then I will be the one to do it. I’d rather do it right than have some stranger hack at your scalp."

She snapped a heavy, crisp black cape around my neck, securing it tightly. As she reached for the electric clippers on the counter, I held up a hand.

"No clippers, Lilly. I don't want a buzz cut. I want a smooth shaved head. I want you to use a straight razor."

Lilly froze, the electric clippers dangling from her fingertips. She stared at me, her eyes flashing with a mix of disbelief and rising anger. "Are you insane? A headshaving session with a bare blade requires a calm client. You are vibrating with rage! You are making incredibly stupid decisions due to a bad breakup."

"Please, Lilly," I pleaded, my voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. "Trust me. I need to feel the blade. I need to feel everything go away."

She bit her lip, clearly upset with me for forcing her hand, but she reluctantly put down the clippers. "Fine," she muttered sharply. "A clipper would have given you a safe, buzzed look. But a straight razor will take your headshave straight to the bare scalp. There’s no turning back from going completely bald."

I didn’t respond. I sat perfectly still, my eyes locked on my reflection.

Lilly grabbed her water bottle and began vigorously spraying my hair. The cold mist saturated my locks, dripping down the sides of my face, mirroring the tears I refused to shed. Once my hair was thoroughly soaked and plastered to my skull, she turned her back to prepare the steel.

The sharp, metallic click of her loading a fresh, sterile blade into the heavy artisan straight razor echoed like a gunshot in the quiet shop.

She stepped closer, her posture tense. She placed a firm hand on the crown of my head, bending it forward so she could gain clear, unobstructed access to the very top. In that tense, quiet position, her voice softened just a fraction.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"Yes," I breathed out.

"Okay then," Lilly whispered, her tone shifting into something intensely focused. "Ready to go bald."

She tautened the skin of my scalp with her thumb, angled the gleaming steel at a precise thirty-degree angle, and took the very first stroke right down the middle of my head.

Shhhritch.

The distinct, crisp sound of cutting hair filled the air. A large, heavy pile of dark, wet hair got smudged forward onto my forehead. Beneath it, a stark, pale, greenish strip of virgin scalp was suddenly exposed to the light.

Lilly paused for a moment, staring intently at the bare strip she had just created. It looked as though my old identity was literally being peeled off my head. Without a word, she repositioned the razor directly next to the fresh bald spot and took another smooth, downward stroke.

Shhhritch.

The bald spot on my head was getting wider, expanding across my crown. She wiped the hair from the blade onto a towel and struck again from the top, and this time, the heavy shorn locks came cascading down, raining over the black cape and piling into my lap. I watched the reflection in fascination. The sensation was incredible—the cold steel scraping against my skull felt like a physical manifestation of erasing Priya from my mind.

Within a few minutes of rhythmic, methodical strokes, a massive bunch of wet, shaved hair lay piled on my lap. Lilly stopped, picked up a soft boar-bristle brush, and gently dusted the stray hairs off my freshly exposed skin.

Lilly wasn't done. She picked up the spray bottle again, misting the thick hair on the sides of my head.

"The top is gone," she murmured, her voice tight. "Now for the rest."

She started on the right side. The straight razor effortlessly glided through the hair, instantly displaying my naked scalp beneath. The hollow, scraping sound of the active headshave echoed rhythmically in the quiet shop. I could tell Lilly was still upset with me; her jaw was clenched because I hadn’t listened to her warnings. Yet, her hands remained perfectly steady, executing the extreme headshaving process with the flawless precision of a master barber.

She migrated to the left side, her fingers firmly guiding my head. Stroke by stroke, the razor stripped away the remnants of my past. By the time she finished the sides, I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself. I was completely bald across the top and both sides—a stark, dramatic transformation.

Finally, Lilly stepped directly behind my chair. She pushed my head forward slightly, anchoring her fingers against my brow. Even though my chin was tucked, I could still see her intense, focused expression in the bottom of the mirror. She placed the razor at the very crown and pulled it downward toward the nape of my neck.

The sensation was overwhelming. I could feel the raw, icy scrape of the razor shaving my head, followed immediately by the rush of cold air hitting my newly exposed, vulnerable skin. Four or five long, sweeps of the blade later, the back of my head was completely cleared.

I looked up. A totally bald man stared back at me in the mirror. But I wasn't satisfied yet. I wanted it cleaner. I wanted it absolute.

"Can you shave it again?" I asked quietly.

Lilly stared at my reflection through the mirror, stunned. This time, she didn't argue. There was nothing left to save; the hair was already gone.

Instead, she grabbed a brush and a bowl of thick, warm shaving cream. She whipped it into a rich lather and applied it generously all over my bald head, covering every inch of my bare scalp in a warm, comforting blanket of foam.

This time, she changed her technique. She initiated the headshave against the grain, shaving in the reverse direction to ensure absolute closeness. The razor slid flawlessly over the contours of my skull. Within minutes, she wiped away the residual foam with a warm, damp towel.

My head was radically smoother and incredibly shiny under the shop lights.

"There," Lilly said, setting the razor down with a definitive clink. "I hope you're happy now that you've ignored my advice."

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Lilly," I said softly, looking up at her. "I just... I needed to exhale all the anger and frustration. Headshaving was the only solution that made sense to my chaotic brain."

Overwhelmed by curiosity, I slipped my right hand out from beneath the black cape and reached up to feel the results. I began rubbing my smooth shaved head, marveled by the foreign, slick texture of my bare skin.

Smack!

Lilly quickly stepped forward and playfully slapped my hand away. "Don't touch your shaved head yet! Your pores are completely open."

I retreated my hand with a chuckle. Lilly then squirted a generous amount of an alcohol-based aftershave lotion into her palms. She rubbed her hands together and clapped them firmly onto my fresh scalp.

The lotion burned like absolute hell. A fiery sensation exploded across my skin.

"Ah! Damn it!" I screamed, though I caught myself before it got too loud.

Lilly grinned mischievously and lightly slapped the top of my shaved head again. "And that is your official punishment for being a stubborn customer and not listening to your barber."

Almost instantly, the intense burn subsided, replaced by a deep, icy, invigorating cooling sensation. My scalp felt incredibly alive, refreshed, and entirely reborn.

"Because we shaved it multiple times and went completely against the grain," Lilly noted, running a professional eye over her handiwork, "it's going to take much longer than usual for your hair to regrow. You’re going to be a bald man for a while."

Lilly unclipped the black cape, shaking the mountain of my former hair onto the floor. She then did something that made my heart skip a beat—she leaned in close, rubbed her bare palm slowly across my smooth shaved head, and gave me a soft, incredibly tender smile.

The anger from the breakup had completely evaporated, replaced by a strange, magnetic tension between us.

"I’m sorry for being a handful today, Lilly," I said, standing up from the chair. "I just needed to offload the stress. Thank you for always supporting me, even when I'm being reckless."

Lilly stepped into my space, looking up at me. "I know exactly what you’ve been going through with her, even if you never talked about it. I am always here for you."

"That’s the exact reason I came to you," I admitted.

"If you need anything else—absolutely anything at all—just tell me," she whispered.

A sudden wave of confidence washed over me, entirely unburdened by my past relationship. I smirked, looking down at her. "Well, there is one thing... will you have my head again when the stubble grows back?"

Lilly burst into a melodious laugh, her eyes crinkling. "Why? Are you planning on going through another breakup next week?"

"No," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I stepped a fraction closer. "But I realized I really like the way you execute a headshave. And I think I like being bald."

We stood there, frozen in time, staring deeply into each other’s eyes for a few breathless seconds. The unspoken chemistry that we had suppressed for two years was suddenly burning hot and undeniable.

Suddenly, the sharp ring of her phone broke the silence. Lilly pulled it from her apron pocket, glanced at the screen, immediately muted it, and shoved it back out of sight. She turned her attention back to me, her smile turning decidedly playful.

"If you like it that much," she said softly, "then I will happily give you a smooth shaved head as many times as you want."

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around my waist, burying her face in my chest. I readily embraced her in my arms, holding her close. As we hugged, she reached up with one hand, gently rubbing the back of my shaved head, her fingers enjoying the smooth, bare skin.

"Please take care of yourself tonight," she whispered into my chest.

"I don't think I have to take care of myself anymore," I smiled, kissing the top of her head. "I have a feeling you're going to do that for me."

She pulled back with a blush, patting my smooth scalp one last time. "See you very soon for your next headshaving appointment."

"Don't worry," I replied, walking toward the door. "I won't keep you waiting."

We both shared a warm laugh as I stepped out into the cool evening air. Walking back down the footpath, I felt completely light, free, and unburdened. The phantom weight of Priya was entirely gone, left behind on Lilly's barbershop floor.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a text from Lilly:

Can I see you tomorrow? I want to make sure your shaved head is still smooth... ❤️❤️❤️

I smiled, rubbing my bare head as I walked into a brand new future.