The lesson by Barberettelover

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The Lesson
At 21, my hair brushed my shoulders again—unkempt, split-ended, and perpetually tucked behind my ears. Mom had been dropping hints for months. "You look like a stray sheep," she’d say over video calls, squinting at my screen. "One day I’ll fix that."

I came home for Thanksgiving, my first visit in two years. The moment I walked in, Mom’s eyes locked onto my hair like a hawk spotting prey. She hugged me stiffly, her fingers snagging a strand. "Still clinging to this old habit, I see."

The next morning, I found her at the kitchen table, clippers already plugged in. A towel and comb sat neatly beside them.

"Sit," she said, patting the chair. "Just a trim. You can’t meet your cousins looking like a swamp creature."

I froze. "I didn’t ask—"

"You didn’t have to." Her voice softened. "It’s free. Consider it a holiday gift."

Reluctance warred with that familiar itch. I sat.

The vinyl sheet snapped around my neck. Too tight. Her comb raked through my tangles, sharp and efficient. "Just a crewcut," she said, as if reading my mind. "Like last time."

The clippers buzzed to life. I flinched as cold steel touched my temple.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

Long locks fell into my lap, brown waves shearing away. Mom worked methodically, her silence unnerving. The mirror across the room showed my reflection transforming—neat, clean, controlled. The crewcut suited me, just like at 16.

"Done," Mom announced, dusting my neck.

I exhaled, half-relieved, half-disappointed. Too easy.

But as I stood, she gripped my shoulder. "Sit back down."

"What? Why?"

She yanked the sheet taut again. "You think I didn’t notice?"

"Notice what?"

"The split ends. The grease. You wanted me to do this." Her voice turned steely. "But you’ll never learn if I let you off easy."

Before I could protest, the clippers screamed to life—no guard this time.

"Mom, wait—!"

The blade scalded my crown. A bald stripe tore through the fresh crewcut.

"You want short hair?" she hissed, pushing my head forward. "Then own it."

Hair rained down—shorter, shorter, until my scalp gleamed pale under the kitchen light. The clippers gnawed up my nape, raw and relentless. I squeezed my eyes shut, heart pounding, but a traitorous smile tugged my lips.

When the buzzing stopped, Mom wiped stray bristles from my neck. "Look."

The mirror showed a stranger: shaved to the bone, exposed, unapologetic.

"No more games," Mom said, unplugging the clippers. "If you want a buzzcut, ask. Don’t dare use me as your excuse."

I touched my bare head. The chill shocked me. The honesty thrilled me.

"Next time," she said, folding the sheet, "bring the clippers yourself."

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