AI:The Unexpected Trim at Mr Sam's by Storyteller.

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I asked AI to create a story similar to one of my stories but in a different situation, this is what I got after a few askings of changes.

It was 1977, and I was the proud owner of a long, flowing mane of dark brown hair that I had been growing out since I was ten. By the time I was thirteen, my hair was well past my shoulders, and it was the one thing about me that I was proud of. It wasn’t just long; it was thick and wavy. It was the centerpiece of my look—a little rebellious, a little rock ‘n’ roll, and a lot like the guys in my favorite bands.

My parents weren’t particularly strict about how I looked—especially when it came to my hair. Dad was usually too busy to care, and Mom was just glad I wasn’t causing trouble. It’s not like I was a complete rebel; I always did my homework, got along with my teachers, and never caused a scene. But my long hair, well, it set me apart.

I was living in a small town, and there was only one barbershop in the whole place. Mr. Sam’s Barbershop. It had a classic 70s vibe, with red-and-white stripes twirling above the door and old-school leather chairs inside. The smell of aftershave and hair tonic always hung in the air, and the clippers buzzed constantly. All the guys in town went there for their haircuts, and it was no different for me when I was younger, although I hadn’t been there in a while.

One summer afternoon, my dad and I were walking around the downtown area after running a few errands. I had my hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and as we passed Mr. Sam’s, my dad stopped.

"Timmy," he said, with a slight grin, "You know, I think it’s time for a little trim."

I froze. "Uh, trim, Dad? I’m fine, really. My hair’s fine."

He wasn’t having any of it. "It’s getting pretty long, don’t you think? You don’t want to look all scruffy when school starts up again. Plus, Mr. Sam’s a good guy. You’ll be in and out in no time."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Dad was already stepping toward the door. "Let’s just get you cleaned up, alright?"

I sighed. There was no getting out of it. I followed him into the barbershop, the cool, sharp scent of shaving cream and hair products immediately hitting my senses. The bell above the door jingled as we entered, and Mr. Sam, a burly man in his late 50s with a thick mustache, looked up from the chair where he was trimming another man’s hair.

"Hey, Mr. Johnson! Timmy, good to see you!" Mr. Sam’s voice was friendly, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. I had been there for haircuts when I was younger, but I hadn’t been back since my hair grew out. The thought of sitting in one of those chairs now made me nervous.

Dad clapped him on the back. "Hey, Sam. Just a quick trim for my boy here. His hair’s getting a bit long. You think you can fix him up?"

Mr. Sam grinned, wiping his hands on a towel. "Of course, of course. Come on, Timmy, hop up in the chair. We’ll make you look sharp."

I looked at Dad, who gave me a slight nod of approval. I felt my heart sink into my stomach. I wanted my hair to stay long, but now there was no backing out. I sat down in the leather chair, and Mr. Sam adjusted the cape around my shoulders.

"Alright, Timmy," he said, his voice all business now. "Let’s get that ponytail out of the way."

I carefully pulled the band from my hair, letting it fall loosely around my shoulders. Mr. Sam ran his fingers through it, making a soft "hmm" sound.

"Nice, real nice hair you’ve got there," he said. "But it’s time for a little clean-up, don’t you think?"

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah… just a little trim, please."

Dad stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching me closely. He didn’t notice the flicker of doubt in my eyes, or if he did, he didn’t care. To him, I was just getting a little tidied up for school.

The sound of the clippers buzzing to life made me tense. I couldn’t help it. I had never liked the noise—they always reminded me of how much hair I’d lose when the clippers touched my scalp. But I trusted Mr. Sam. He had cut my hair when I was younger, after all.

"Okay, Timmy, here we go," he said, leaning in close with the clippers.

Before I could say anything, the clippers were on my forehead, just under the bangs I had been so careful to style. My eyes widened as I felt the clippers glide through my hair, the vibration jolting through my head. A thick lock of hair fell onto my lap.

"There, now. Just a little trim…" Mr. Sam muttered, almost to himself.

He moved to the sides, running the clippers over my temples. I felt the clippers press against my scalp, and I couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through me. I wanted to say something, to stop him, but I couldn’t. Dad was watching, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

"Nice and clean," Mr. Sam said, his voice a little too chipper for my liking.

I glanced in the mirror as I saw the long waves of my hair falling away, one after another. In the reflection, my face looked younger somehow, exposed. My ears stood out more than I was used to. And it was just the beginning.

Before I could protest, I felt the cold edge of the clippers move to the back of my neck. Mr. Sam was working quickly now, moving in smooth, practiced motions. He started at my nape, the buzzing of the clippers seeming louder as they scraped over my skin. The hairs from the back of my head fell onto the cape in a steady stream, but the worst was yet to come.

I tried to catch a glimpse of my dad’s face, but his arms were still crossed, and he looked pleased, as if this was exactly what I needed.

"How’s this, son?" Mr. Sam asked, his voice now full of authority, the clippers never slowing.

"Um… it’s… good," I replied, but my voice cracked halfway through, and I felt my heart pounding. This wasn’t a trim anymore. He wasn’t just cleaning up the edges. He was cutting it short.

And it was happening fast. The buzzing intensified as Mr. Sam worked the clippers against my scalp. I tried to shift in the chair, but the cape made it hard to move, and Dad was standing there, watching, expecting me to be okay with it.

Then, I heard it—the sound of the clippers switching to a lower setting.

"Alright, Timmy, I’m just going to clean up the sides, make it neat for you," Mr. Sam said with a chuckle.

Before I could react, I felt the cold metal press against the side of my head. I looked in the mirror and watched in stunned silence as the long hair along my temples was shorn away completely. The clippers skimmed so close to my scalp that I felt a chill run down my spine. There was no turning back now.

My heart sank further as the hair on the sides of my head fell away, leaving patches of bare skin behind. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. Dad had told me to trust Mr. Sam, and I couldn’t go back on that now.

Mr. Sam moved to the top of my head, pushing the clippers into my thick hair. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as clumps of hair fell into my lap, some of it sticking to the cape. The buzzing was louder than ever as Mr. Sam moved the clippers back and forth over my scalp.

The cut was getting shorter and shorter, and it was clear now that there was no "trim" in Mr. Sam’s mind. My long hair was being reduced to stubble, and all I could do was sit there, powerless. I could feel the coolness of the air on my exposed scalp, and I wanted to reach up and cover my head. But I didn’t. I just stared at my reflection, hoping this was a bad dream I’d wake up from.

When it was finally over, Mr. Sam shut off the clippers with a satisfied "There you go, all cleaned up!"

I couldn’t recognize myself. The mirror showed a boy with his hair buzzed down to nearly nothing. My scalp, pale and vulnerable, was now exposed to the world. I touched my head, the bristles of my hair barely there, and I couldn’t help but shudder.

Dad smiled proudly and clapped me on the back. "See? I told you it would look good. You look sharp, Timmy."

I didn’t say anything. The words caught in my throat. My hair was gone. All of it.

"Thanks, Mr. Sam," I muttered, my voice sounding foreign in my own ears.

"Anytime, son. Anytime," he said, smiling.

As we left.

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