The boss said SHAVE by Baldbearded

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The barber shop was nearly empty, save for Jonathan and the barber standing behind him, comb and scissors in hand. The smell of shaving cream and talcum powder filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of leather from the chair. Jonathan sat stiffly, staring into the mirror in front of him, his auburn beard cascading over his chest, a striking wave of fiery reds and deep coppers that reached all the way to his waist. This beard had been his constant companion, his shield, his identity. And now, under orders from his boss, he was about to lose it.

His boss’s ultimatum still rang in his mind. "We need a new look, Jonathan—cleaner, more professional. You’ll never get anywhere here unless you’re willing to adapt." Jonathan had argued, even pleaded, but in the end, he needed the job. The company was tightening its standards, and he was being left with little choice. The barber, sensing his unease, waited in silence, his hands resting on Jonathan’s shoulders.

"You sure about this?" the barber asked, meeting Jonathan’s eyes in the mirror.

Jonathan took a deep breath, forcing himself to nod. "I have to be. My boss made it clear—I either do this, or I don’t stay at the company."

The barber nodded, a sympathetic understanding in his eyes, and lifted the scissors. Jonathan could see his own face tense in the mirror, a look of almost-panic crossing his features. He reached up and touched the beard one last time, fingers sinking into its thickness. It was strange, the thought of it being gone. This beard had been with him through so much, almost like a witness to his life. Every laugh, every heartbreak, every late night spent working or reflecting—it had grown alongside him, becoming a part of him.

With a sigh, he gave the barber a small nod, signaling that he was ready.

The barber’s scissors slid into the beard, just below his chest, and with a single, swift snip, cut away the first lock of auburn. Jonathan watched it fall to his lap, feeling as though he were watching a piece of himself break away. The thick, warm strands lay across his hands, alien and yet heartbreakingly familiar. He ran his fingers over them, a final farewell, before setting them aside.

The barber continued, each snip bringing Jonathan closer to his face, closer to the man hidden beneath the layers of auburn. The pile of hair grew, a mountain of fiery reds and coppery browns collecting on the floor. Each cut felt heavier than the last, like stripping away his own history. Memories came flooding back with each fallen lock—the way he’d stroked his beard in moments of thought, the times he’d hidden behind it when life felt overwhelming.

Finally, only a short, scruffy layer remained. Jonathan looked at his reflection, almost not recognizing himself. His jawline was sharp, his face more exposed, as if the beard had been a wall he’d hidden behind. The barber reached for the shaving cream and lathered it over Jonathan’s face, the coolness almost shocking against his bare skin. He felt a pang in his chest, a final resistance against what was happening, but he swallowed it down.

The razor felt cold as it touched his skin, each stroke smooth and calculated. Jonathan watched as the last traces of his beard disappeared under the razor’s edge, leaving nothing but bare skin behind. He could almost feel the weight of it, the loss of something essential. Every stroke of the razor felt like a goodbye to an old self, someone he wasn’t sure he was ready to part with.

When the barber rinsed his face and handed him a towel, Jonathan stared at his reflection, a strange hollowness in his chest. He ran his fingers over his newly smooth jaw, his bare chin, struggling to recognize the man staring back. He looked younger, perhaps even more approachable, but he didn’t feel like himself.

But then, his eyes fell on his mustache—a thick, proud spread of auburn that still held a piece of his old self. The barber noticed his gaze and gave him a questioning look.

"Let’s… let’s do the mustache, too," Jonathan whispered, knowing his boss wouldn’t be satisfied until his face was completely bare.

The barber nodded, lifting the scissors again, carefully trimming down the mustache before covering his upper lip with another layer of shaving cream. Jonathan closed his eyes, a strange heaviness settling over him as the last piece of his old self was about to vanish. With each stroke of the razor, he felt a pang of loss, an ache he couldn’t quite explain. When the barber finished, Jonathan opened his eyes and saw himself, fully exposed, without any hint of the man he’d been.

The barber stepped back, his hand resting gently on Jonathan’s shoulder. "Looks good," he said softly. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice—he, too, seemed to sense the loss hanging in the air.

Jonathan forced a small smile, touching his bare chin and lip. His skin felt smooth, unfamiliar. The weight of his beard was gone, and yet all he felt was the hollowness it left behind. He was a stranger in his own reflection, a version of himself he didn’t know, hadn’t chosen. The job was still his, but at what cost?

As he paid the barber and walked out of the shop, he felt the cool night air brush against his bare face, a feeling that left him strangely vulnerable. With every step, he missed the warmth and weight of his beard, the comfort it had given him, the piece of himself it had represented. He realized that some sacrifices weren’t worth it, that some changes left you emptier than before.

But there was no going back now. As he walked away, Jonathan felt the ache of regret settling deep, knowing that he’d left a part of himself on that barber shop floor, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back.

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