IN THE ZONE by cut.the.flow

---

IN THE ZONE

Grant stepped through the front door of Preston’s Barbershop, the familiar scent hitting him first—the sharp tang of aftershave mixed with freshly cut hair. The place was sleek and modern, all clean lines and polished chrome, a far cry from the old-school barbershops he’d been expecting. It was small, just two chairs, but only one was occupied. An older gentleman sat in it, getting a trim from the only barber in sight.

As Grant stepped inside, the barber paused and turned toward him.

Preston: "Hey there, welcome in."
Grant: "Hey, name’s Grant."
Preston: "Nice to meet you, Grant. I’m Preston. I’ll put your name on the list—shouldn’t be too long."

Grant gave a small nod, trying not to fidget. He took in Preston’s appearance, noting the similarities between them. Both had shoulder-length brown hair—his own wavy, Preston’s pin-straight. Grant sported a mustache, while Preston’s face was clean-shaven with precision. They shared the same brown eyes, the kind of symmetry that made Grant wonder if they could pass as brothers.

Grant ran a hand through his hair, tousling it absentmindedly. He knew exactly why he was here, and it wasn’t by choice. Losing his fantasy football league had come with a price—he had to walk into a barbershop and ask for a barber’s choice cut. No negotiations, no requests. Just whatever the barber felt like doing.

His stomach tightened as he watched Preston finish up with the older man. This was it. He loved his hair. It was part of him, the way it parted perfectly down the middle, the way it fell past his shoulders. He could only hope Preston, with his own long mane, would understand. Maybe he’d go easy on him.

Or maybe not.

Grant blinked, and suddenly, the older gentleman was gone. His stomach dropped as Preston called his name. This was it.

He pushed himself up from the waiting area and made his way to the barber’s chair, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. His hair was thick, wavy, and abundant—a true mop by any standard. He had spent years growing it out, and now, its fate rested entirely in Preston’s hands.

Preston swung the cape around him, snapping it snug at the back of his neck, gently shifting Grant’s hair out of the way. The sensation sent a shiver down Grant’s spine. Then came the spray bottle—cool mist dampening his locks, the scent of water and faint product filling the air. Preston combed through his hair deliberately, untangling knots with practiced ease.

Preston: "So, what are we doing today?"

Grant’s chest tightened. He knew this moment was coming, but saying it out loud made it real. No backing out now.

Grant: "I… want a, uh—barber’s choice cut. Just whatever you want."
Preston: "Are you sure? Why?"
Grant: "I kinda… lost my fantasy football league. This is my punishment."
Preston’s lips curled into a slow, mischievous grin.
Preston: "Punishment, huh? Well then… I can definitely be of assistance."

Preston ran his fingers through Grant’s thick mane, admiring the texture while silently mapping out his plan. Grant swallowed hard, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling of his hair being toyed with, his fate resting entirely in Preston’s hands.

Preston: "You’ve got some great hair, man. Real shame about the whole fantasy football thing."

Grant clung to one last shred of hope.

Grant: "You know, you don’t have to cut it short. You could just… do something unique with it. Let me keep the length."

He met Preston’s gaze in the mirror, eyes practically begging. But the smirk that spread across Preston’s face told him all he needed to know.

Preston: "Grant, I could lie to you and say I’ll leave you some length… but I think we both know that’s not going to happen."

Grant barely had time to process that statement before Preston grabbed a comb and scissors, methodically brushing through sections of his hair.

Then—SNIP.

No warning. No hesitation.

Grant’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t even facing the mirror, but he didn’t need to be. He watched as a long lock of his dark brown hair slid down the cape, landing on the floor like a fallen soldier.

Oh, s**t.

I’m about to get sheared like a f***ing sheep.

A relentless symphony of snipping filled the air as Preston hacked away at Grant’s hair with practiced ease. Strands tumbled down in a steady rhythm, pooling on the floor like fallen leaves. Grant squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay still. Watching was too painful—each lock that hit the ground felt like a piece of his soul being stripped away.

Then, silence.

For a brief, fleeting moment, hope flickered in Grant’s chest. Was it over? Had he finally been freed from this nightmare?

Nope.

A low, ominous hum filled the air. The unmistakable sound of clippers.

Before Grant could react, Preston’s firm hand pressed down on the back of his head, forcing his chin to his chest.

Preston: "Oh, I’m having a hay day with this. Now keep your head still while I shear you, boy."

Grant’s eyes shot open in panic.

Grant: "Wait—just… remember to leave me some length!"

But his plea fell on deaf ears.

Preston was in the zone now, fully entranced, his eyes gleaming with something almost manic. It was as if the sheer power of transforming Grant’s look had hypnotized him, and there was no stopping him now.

The clippers roared to life, their vibrations rattling Grant’s skull as Preston wasted no time, dragging them up the back of his head with ruthless precision. Stripped hair tumbled down the cape in thick, heavy clumps, exposing bare skin in their wake. The sensation was surreal—each pass of the clippers sent a fresh wave of cool air against his scalp, a stark contrast to the warmth that had been trapped beneath his thick waves moments before.

Grant squeezed his eyes shut, fingers curling beneath the cape as he braced himself. He had expected a drastic change, but nothing could have prepared him for the brutal efficiency with which Preston worked. There was no teasing, no hesitation—just the relentless hum of the clippers carving a path through what had once been his pride and joy.

Preston let out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying himself.

Preston: "Damn, Grant. You really did have a lot of hair, huh?"

Grant let out a strangled noise in response, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

Another swipe of the clippers. Another chunk of his identity gone.

He dared to open his eyes, glancing down. The cape was covered in his own hair—so much of it that it didn’t even look real. He forced himself to look in the mirror.

And that’s when it truly hit him.

His reflection was unrecognizable.

The once-long waves that framed his face were gone, replaced by brutally short, uneven patches as Preston continued shearing away. The contrast was shocking.

Grant’s stomach flipped. He knew his hair was going to be cut. That was the deal. But now that it was happening—seeing himself stripped down like this—it was almost too much.

Grant: "Holy s**t…"

Preston grinned, guiding the clippers up Grant’s temple, flicking away more length with each motion.

Preston: "Told you there was no turning back."

As the final pass of the clippers ran over the crown of Grant’s head, the relentless buzzing finally came to an end. The sudden silence felt deafening.

Grant sat there, heart pounding, his head feeling strangely light—too light. Preston dusted off the last stray hairs with a flick of his wrist, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

Preston: "Well, my man… it’s done."

He reached behind Grant’s neck, unclasping the cape with a practiced tug. The fabric slid away, and suddenly, Grant was free. Free—but somehow still trapped in the weight of what had just happened.

His eyes dropped to the floor, and the sight stole his breath.

His hair—his beautiful, thick, wavy hair—was everywhere. Piles of it, scattered across the black and white tile in uneven mounds, like the remnants of a storm that had ripped through the shop. It didn’t even look like it could’ve all come from his head. And yet, here he was—shorn down to nothing, the evidence of his loss surrounding him.

Grant exhaled slowly, willing himself to look up.

And then, for the first time, he faced his reflection.

A stranger stared back.

His jawline was sharper, more defined without the curtain of hair softening it. His ears—previously hidden—were now fully exposed. His scalp, once thick with waves, was now covered in nothing but a fine dusting of dark stubble.

He raised a hand slowly, hesitantly, and ran his fingers over the fresh buzz. The sensation was surreal—soft, yet prickly, almost electric under his touch. He dragged his palm over it again, testing the new reality of it. It was so short.

Preston leaned casually against the counter behind him, arms crossed, watching the moment unfold.

Preston: "Wild, huh? Bet your head feels ten pounds lighter."

Grant let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly.

Grant: "Yeah… this is insane."

Preston pushed himself off the counter and stepped closer, reaching out before Grant could react.

His fingertips met Grant’s scalp, rubbing over the buzzed surface with slow, deliberate movements. Grant stiffened, caught off guard—not just by the touch itself, but by the unexpected intimacy of it. Preston’s hand was warm, his touch firm yet gentle as he ran his palm over the newly shorn hair.

Preston: "Gotta admit… it suits you."

Grant swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t sure why this moment felt so intense—maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, maybe it was the way Preston’s fingers lingered a little too long, like he was memorizing the shape of Grant’s head.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way their eyes met in the mirror, an unspoken tension settling between them.

Preston finally pulled back, giving a light pat to Grant’s scalp before stepping away with a grin.

Preston: "Well, since this was a barber’s choice cut… I won’t charge you. Consider it my personal contribution to your fantasy football punishment."

Grant huffed out a laugh, still dragging his hand over his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Grant: "Gee, thanks."

Preston winked. "Anytime, man. And hey—when it grows back, you know where to find me."

Grant rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at his lips. He had walked in dreading this moment. But now, as he stood from the chair, rubbing his head once more just to feel that unfamiliar sensation again…

He wasn’t sure he totally hated it.

(@hair.holds.memories on Instagram.)

---