Watch your step by Skinhim

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"Watch your step"

The bass thumped so hard it rattled the bones in his chest. Laser lights flared in pulses, sweeping across faces and turning the crowd into a rolling sea of silhouettes. Jamie wiped the sweat from his brow as he weaved his way through the packed club, a half-empty pint sloshing in his hand. It was one of those strange theme nights but he hadn’t paid much attention. He was there for the music, the drink, and the release.

Still, the barber station had caught his eye when he walked in. Tucked just off to the side of the main floor, it was bathed in red neon. A cherry red barbers chair sat centre-stage, framed by old-school barber poles and velvet ropes. But what made it magnetic was them—the girls manning it.

They didn’t look like barbers. They looked like predators dressed in fishnets and miniskirts. Sharp-eyed. Smirking. Each time someone sat down, they descended with coiled energy and wicked precision. Clack, click, bzzzz and within minutes, another guy was walking away dazed and shorn, scalp glinting under the strobes, drinking token in hand, get skinned and drink for free.

Jamie had watched it happen three times. Lads with floppy indie fringes or messy fades disappearing into the chair only to re-emerge looking like boot camp recruits—stunned realising the only hair he had left was a fine sandpapery stubblew, and strangely euphoric. One guy looked like he’d only gone over for a laugh, still mid-protest when they spun the chair and flicked the cape open. A few minutes later, he was grinning, head gleaming, and sipping free cocktails.

Jamie had laughed. Not me, he thought. He liked his hair—not long, but a good few months past due. It curled slightly over his ears, and his fringe was at that awkward-but-casual length that made it easy to shake out of his eyes. It gave him a bit of edge, and he knew it. No way was he giving that up for a couple free drinks.

But the idea lingered. The station had a pull to it. That buzz of clippers. The clean-shaven aftermath. The way the girls handled each guy like they’d been waiting just for him.

Two drinks later, he went for a piss and nearly forgot what club he was in. The bathrooms were bright and cold and made his reflection look worse than usual—flushed face, hair sweaty and unstyled. He washed his hands, flattened his fringe, and told himself he still looked alright.

It happened on the way back.

He was cutting through the crowd, blinking into the strobe lights, when a girl in leather boots stepped in front of him. Jamie shifted to the side, stumbled slightly—

And crossed the velvet rope.

Too far.

"Whoops, careful now," said a voice, velvet and dangerous.

Hands were suddenly on his shoulders—light, but firm. Another girl giggled behind him. He turned to step back, but there were two of them now, flanking him.

"Easy there, sweetheart," the taller one said, guiding him. "You alright? You look a bit... hot."

"I’m good," Jamie said, blinking, smiling awkwardly. "Just lost my footing—didn’t mean to—"

"Oh, we know," the shorter one said, already steering him toward the chair. "They never mean to."

He laughed nervously. "Nah, seriously, I’m alright. Just going back to—"

"Shh," she cooed, pressing a hand to his chest. "Sit. We’ll cool you right down."

And he did.

Why did he sit? Was it the drinks? The music? The hands guiding him? Maybe he thought it’d just be a laugh, and he could bail before anything real happened.

But the cape was already around his shoulders.

"Nice curls," the taller girl said, combing her fingers through his hair. "Shame they’re about to die."

"Wait—" Jamie started, trying to stand.

Click.

The clippers roared to life, right by his ear.

"Ah-ah." The shorter girl pushed him gently but firmly back into the chair. "You sit in the chair, you get the cut. Club rules."

He glanced toward the crowd, but no one was watching. The music was too loud. The chair too far gone.

"Hey, listen, I just tripped, I’m not—"

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

The blades hit the middle of his head like a lawnmower through tall grass. The vibration sank into his skull. A thick strip of hair peeled away in one go, flopping forward and landing in his lap.

"Oh, wow," the tall one purred. "no going back now."

He tried to reach up, but she caught his wrist.

"Relax. You’re halfway to the free drinks already."

Another swipe. Then another. The girls moved like artists with no time to waste—quick, confident, merciless.

One held his head still, tilting it expertly as the other buzzed up the sides, removing months of growth in seconds.

"There’s a handsome lad under here somewhere," one of them said. "Let’s find him."

The clippers climbed over his ears, buzzing everything clean with cruel efficiency. Loose tufts fell down the back of his neck, onto his shoulders, sticking to his sweat-slick skin.

He tried again. "I didn’t say I—"

"You didn’t have to," came the reply. "You came to us."

The only hair he had left now was on the back of his heasd with a vice like grip she forced his head forward chin into his chest and mercilessly drovbe the clippers from his neck to his crown pass after pass raining down the last tufts of hair onto the floor. The stubble left behind was barely a dusting. the balding clippers they were using were chosen for that exact reason .

When the buzzing stopped, his ears were ringing with more than just music.

The tall girl unclipped the cape and gave it a shake, hair falling in clumps to the floor like the end of a harvest.

She tilted his chin up with a finger.

"There," she said. "Born again."

The shorter one handed him a token.

"Free drinks all night, chrome dome."

He stood slowly, dazed. Reached up to touch his head—and winced at the sensation. Sandpaper. No softness. Just skin and a faint dusting of stubble.

The girls were already turning to the next victim.

He staggered toward the bar, token in hand. Someone clapped him on the back. A stranger grinned and shouted something he couldn’t hear.

Jamie looked into the mirror behind the bar and barely recognised the skull staring back.

He’d only come for a night out.

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