Hair and Dare Part 2 by Deke Cutter

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As with the first part, I am posting this from that other site. I am not the author

You ever have a moment you replay in your head so many times, you start to wonder if it even happened the way you remember it?

Barry and Mike thought it was so funny. A little dare. "You wouldn’t!" they’d lauged. And me, always the one trying to prove I wasn’t afraid of anything… I walked into that barbershop like it was a joke. I walked out with a goddamn flattop.

Every time I look in the mirror, I see the angles. The harsh lines. The nape that feels like sandpaper when I run my fingers over it. I hate it. I tell people I’m "owning it," but the truth? I miss my hair. I miss flipping it, brushing it, hiding behind it. I don’t want this forever. I want to grow it back. But not yet. Because revenge… revenge needs timing.

I haven’t forgiven them. Not even close. They watched me get sheared like it was a comedy show. They laughed. Filmed it, even. Posted it. Oh, I smiled at the time—played along like I was in on the joke—but I’ve been plotting ever since.

That’s why I’ve got a plan. This weekend, Barry and I are heading back to the mall. He thinks we’re going to look for shoes that fit my new image. But just like last time, we’ll pass that same little barbershop tucked beside the pretzel place. And that’s when I’ll do it. I’ll casually say, "Hold up, I need a quick touch-up," like it’s nothing. I’ll walk in, sit down, get my flattop reshaped. That’ll catch him off guard.
And when the barberette finishes, she’ll look at Barry. Maybe even pat the chair. And I’ll turn, all nice and innocent, and say: "Come on, just a little trim. You said you wanted to do something different, right?" He’ll be cornered. Peer pressure’s a hell of a thing.

I’ll let her cape him up. And then I’ll sit back and watch. Even if it means sacrificing my grow-out plans, even if I have to keep this stupid haircut a little longer… it’ll be worth it. To see him under that cape. To hear the clippers start up again—but this time, not for me.
Yeah. That’ll be worth every last bristle on my head. Besides, I’ve told people I like the low maintenance of the flat top, how much time it saves every day. He won’t be too suspicious.

Now here we are. The mall is buzzing with life — the sound of kids laughing, shoes squeaking across polished tiles, and a rotating loop of pop songs echoing through open storefronts. Barry strolled beside me, sipping a matcha latte like he owned the place. His dirty-blonde waves bounced effortlessly, perfectly styled even in the humid air. I trailed a little behind, one hand brushing the top of my head — not out of habit anymore, but as a reminder. The flattop had grown out, but not enough to look intentional. The edges were fuzzy, the top sagged a little unevenly, and I hated how the back just curled when it hit my neck. After telling people I was growing it out, the truth was, I hadn’t decided. Not really. Not until now.

Barry turned to say something about a pair of limited edition shoes he’d seen, but I cut in casually. "Hey, before we hit that shoe place… can we make a quick stop?"

He looked at me, half-interested. "Sure. Where?"

I smiled innocently. "You’ll see."

He shrugged, sipping his drink again, and followed me as I veered left into a quieter hallway. The second we rounded the corner, I saw it: the black awning, the glass door, and the familiar silver pole slowly spinning. My heart picked up — like it always did — but I kept my face cool. This time, I wasn’t the clueless dare victim. This time, I had a plan.

When we got closer, Barry looked confused. "The barbershop?" he asked, pausing. "You’re going in there?"

"Yeah," I said, brushing my hand through my uneven top. "Time for a quick tune-up."

He blinked. "But I thought you were—"

"Just a trim," I lied smoothly. "Won’t take long." Before he could protest, I pulled the door open and stepped inside. I heard him mutter something under his breath and awkwardly follow, the bells on the door jingling behind us.

Inside, it was calm — almost too calm. The barberette was lounging in her chair, scrolling on her phone with one leg slung over the armrest. When she noticed us, she stood slowly, her lips curling into that same crooked smirk she’d worn the first time I came in. Without a word, she patted the chair. I didn’t hesitate — or at least pretended I didn’t. I marched over like I did this every weekend and dropped into the seat. The chair squeaked faintly under me. My eyes flicked up to the mirror in front, catching Barry’s reflection. He had taken a cautious seat on the bench along the wall, eyebrows raised and one foot already tapping.

The barberette didn’t speak. She just walked over behind me, tugged the cape off the hook, and gave it a sharp snap. It puffed into shape like a parachute, and a second later, it was pulled tight around my neck — tighter than I remembered. I swallowed but said nothing. No hair was clipped up this time — there wasn’t enough of it to bother. The top was starting to look uneven, and a little too long for the style to hold, but the sides were already getting thick. My hair always grew fast. I looked like a misfire between growing it out and giving up. I kept my expression calm, relaxed even, but I knew every move was being watched from the bench. The cape settled over me like a curtain, heavy and familiar. I let my hands slide beneath it, like a pro.
I caught Barry’s eyes in the mirror again. He gave me a weird little half-smile — the kind that said I don’t get it, but okay. Exactly what I was counting on. This wasn’t about me anymore. Not really. Sure, I’d be sacrificing what little regrowth I had, maybe even making the flattop more dramatic than before. But if it meant seeing Barry squirm… maybe even watching him take the chair after me? Totally worth it.

The cape tightened around my neck, the familiar squeeze anchoring me in place. The heavy black fabric draped over me like a cloak, concealing everything below the shoulders. My arms rested obediently beneath; hands clasped in a relaxed but deliberate posture. It was a performance, after all — and I intended to play it perfectly.

With a firm push, the barberette spun the chair to the right, turning me away from the mirror and toward the large glass window that opened onto the mall. A spotlight without the light. I could feel eyes from passersby flicking toward me, a kid in a barber’s chair, centre stage. But I didn’t care about them. I cared about Barry. He was perched on the bench, his face doing that thing where he pretended everything was fine. His eyes were wide, though — alert, darting between me and the barberette like he wasn’t quite sure what he’d gotten pulled into. Perfect.

The barberette didn’t say a word. She just picked up her clippers and snapped them on with a sudden buzz that sent a tingle through my chest and right on down to my ‘little friend. That hum — electric, alive, surgical. Then, without hesitation, she pressed them to the left side of my head.

The first stroke was long and sure, gliding up from the base near my ear. The blades chewed through the soft fuzz of my grown-out flattop like it was nothing. Short copper strands danced briefly in the air before dropping to the cape and floor like autumn leaves.
I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I knew Barry was watching every second of it.

A few more passes, and the side was crisp again — that hard contrast between scalp and flat, structured top. I could feel it already, even without seeing it. That clean precision. I loved and hated it all at once. Then came the moment I’d been waiting for.
The barberette paused, brushed off the clippers, and then, with one hand on the back of the chair, spun me again. Not just a little this time — all the way.

Now I was facing Barry directly. His gaze snapped up and locked onto mine. I gave him a small, smug smile — nothing over the top. Just enough. Hhe blinked. Looked at the cape. Looked at the clippers still in the barberette’s hand. Then back to me.

And then came the next move. With a hand on the crown of my head, the barberette gently tilted me forward. My chin lowered, and I could hear the subtle shift in Barry’s posture as I disappeared from her line of sight. Then the clippers came to life again. A deep, steady hum — and then they met the back of my head with purpose. Right at the base, just above the nape, they surged upward in a straight, clean path. The vibration buzzed through my skull, sending an almost involuntary shiver down my spine.

More hair tumbled away, dropping onto the cape. I could feel the change instantly — that clean shorn patch being carved up the back. Another stroke. Another. The sound of it was hypnotic — loud and close and final. Barry had the full view now. My neck exposed. There was no denying what was happening — or what he’d instigated, even if unintentionally. I risked a quick glance upward from my lowered head, just enough to catch his expression. He was frozen; a little wide-eyed; a little fascinated; a little nervous. Good.

The clippers kept going, working their way up the back of my head in steady, vertical passes. The barberette was quick, efficient, and ruthless in her precision. No room for second-guessing. Just shaping, sculpting, slicing the past few weeks of growth away with methodical ease.
When the back was done, the buzzing faded. The cape rustled as loose hairs were brushed away, the chair shifting slightly beneath me.
The barberette’s hand settled on the chair again, a light but decisive grip, and then — with a quick spin — I was turned to the right once more, now facing the back of the shop. The mirror was still out of view, just a faint glimmer in my periphery. Barry was behind me now, but I didn’t need to see him to feel him there. The tension in the air told me everything.

The clippers fired up again. I relaxed my shoulders, settling deeper into the chair, the cape stretching tight over my knees. The buzz crept closer — then it was against my right temple, climbing upward.

Zzzzzzt.

A clean, unbroken pass. Sharp and bold. I exhaled slowly through my nose as the barberette continued, her strokes methodical. The right side of my head was being reset, each sweep carving the fuzz down to precise, smooth stubble. Hair fluttered down in tiny copper waves, the contrast between the bare sides and the sculpted top growing clearer by the second. I felt it — the breeze on my skin, the subtle pressure of her guiding hand, the quiet rhythm of a craft being performed with cool confidence. There was something almost theatrical about it.

When the right side was finished, the buzzing stopped. The barberette stepped away briefly, brushing off her tools with a short, practiced flick of the wrist. The pause was deliberate — letting the moment sit for just a second before she turned me again. And then I was spun back. The chair rotated slowly until I was facing forward once more — this time fully aligned with Barry’s gaze.

His eyes met mine immediately. He didn’t try to hide his reaction. There was a nervous curiosity in his stare now, a tension creeping into his posture. His legs were spread, hi hands nervously holding a shopping bag in his lap. He hadn’t moved an inch since I sat down. The barberette, silent as ever, returned with a comb. Long, white, plastic teeth gleaming under the overhead light. She ran it once through the flattop, pushing upward gently, lifting the hair with a soft scraping sound. Then came the scissors — snip, snip — precise, deliberate cuts along the ridgeline.

Snip. Comb. Snip.
Each motion crisp and practiced, more of the short bristles trimmed away and falling like confetti against the cape. Barrr watched every second. The top was brushed up again — and again. The flat plane was coming together, inch by inch. Straight, firm, geometrically clean. Little tufts of hair littered the cape, sliding down its slope and collecting in folds near my lap. A few even clung to my cheek before the barberette brushed them away with a firm flick. She stepped back, gave one last comb-through, checked the symmetry — and nodded to herself.

The clippers came back one more time, this time fitted with a guard. She made quick, final sweeps across the top to even the silhouette, then tapered the crown down slightly to give it a crisp, military-styled polish.

Barry’s eyes didn’t blink. His lips were parted slightly. Like he wanted to say something — but didn’t know what. And I just smiled.

Sitting there, upright and proud beneath the cape, flattop sharpened to a perfect edge, I felt like I’d just pulled off the first half of a heist. The bait had been cast. The trap was tightening. And Barrr? He was already in too deep to back away.

With a final buzz and a satisfied flick of the clippers, the barberette placed them back on the counter. Her hand returned to the chair’s lever, and slowly, I was spun toward the mirror at last. There it was — the same sharp silhouette as last time. My flattop, perfectly squared and level, standing proud with clean, bristled edges and tightly buzzed sides. The sight hit me like déjà vu. A wave of memory, half-pride, half-regret. I still didn’t love the cut — not really — but I had to admit, it looked… strong. Defined. Commanding. Just like last time.

The cape was peeled open with a practiced flick, sending a scatter of copper bristles fluttering to the floor. Then it was unfastened and whisked away completely, leaving me brushing stray hairs from my lap as I stood. I stepped down from the chair, smoothing my shirt as I caught a glimpse of Barry in the mirror’s reflection — still frozen on the bench, bag tucked close, eyes wide. I handed over the cash, casually, thanking the barberette with a smile. She nodded wordlessly and turned toward the bench.

"Next," she called, tapping the back of the chair with two fingers. Barry blinked. For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared at the chair like it might swallow him whole. The color drained slightly from his face.

I turned toward him with a grin. "Come on, Barry," I said, folding my arms. "You watched the whole thing. You might as well feel what it’s like, right?"

"I—" He glanced at the barberette, then at the chair, then back to me. "I thought we were just— I mean, you didn’t say—"

"I made a little stop, like I said," I interrupted, keeping my tone breezy. "You’re here now. Might as well give it a try. Unless you’re scared?"

"I’m not scared," he mumbled.

"Then prove it."

The barberette said nothing, simply waiting with that same calm, unreadable look. The chair stood there — huge, inviting, a throne with a cape waiting to be wrapped tight.
Barry gave a nervous laugh, clearly searching for an excuse. I took a step closer and gently nudged his arm. "It’s just a little trim," I said, voice sweet as syrup. "You’ll look great." He stared at me, then at the chair. And slowly — reluctantly — he stood.

Barry’s steps were slow. His eyes darted between me, the chair, and the barberette — who, wordless as ever, simply turned and stood beside the throne, patting the armrest again like one might for a hesitant pet.

He glanced back at me one last time, searching for a lifeline. I gave him the most encouraging — and mischievous — smile I could muster and gestured toward the chair. "Go on. You’ll feel like a new man."

Barry inhaled through his nose and finally lowered himself onto the chair’s wide leather seat. He looked small in it, shrinking in uncertainty. His fingers gripped the ends of the armrests. The barberette didn’t wait long. Stepping behind Barry, she reached forward without a word, roughly gathering up his soft hair into her hand. Barry flinched slightly at the suddenness. She wound the length into a twist, then pulled it tight, pinning the bundle high atop Barry’s head with a big black jaw clip — a stark, rigid contrast to his soft curls. A few loose wisps clung to his cheeks, but the bulk of it now sat exposed, vulnerable, awaiting judgment.
Before Barry could process what was happening, the barberette snapped out the cape — the same black, slightly static-charged one that had just been whisked off me — and let it billow beside Barry with a dramatic whoosh. The sound alone made him jolt in the seat. With one fluid motion, the cape was drawn over him, swallowed his frame whole, and was tugged tight behind his neck with practiced, no-nonsense fingers. The fastening was snug — tighter than necessary. Barry squirmed slightly under the grip.

I stepped over to the empty barber chair beside her and sat down with a sigh. From this angle, I had the perfect view of everything — the chair, the cape, Barry’s wide, uncertain eyes in the mirror. His lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line, his cheeks faintly flushed. His hands, now tucked beneath the cape like mine had been, shifted slightly, unsure what to do.

The barberette was in no hurry. She took her time brushing a few stray hairs from Barry’s’s shoulders, adjusting the cape’s drape, ensuring no escape. Every movement was deliberate. Precise

Barry’s eyes met mine in the mirror. And I smiled. The game had only just begun. The barberette seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. She paused, her gaze flicking from me to Barry and back again. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something, but instead, she acted. She spun Barry’s chair to face me — as if setting him up for the full display. Barry’s eyes widened in panic. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. He was completely trapped in the chair, a puppet to the situation I’d orchestrated.

With an almost practiced motion, the barberette unpinned his hair from the clip at the top of his head. The weight of his locks came crashing down in a thick, smooth wave, slapping the black cape with a faint whoosh. A sea of hair cascaded around his shoulders, spilling onto the cape in a heavy curtain. I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin in my hand, my eyes never leaving the scene unfolding in front of me. "You’re doing great," I said. Barry’s long hair now hung in loose, vulnerable. He looked likehe was bracing himself for something much worse. And, to his horror, he wasn’t wrong.

The barberette didn’t waste any time. She grabbed a large section of Barry’s hair at the nape of his neck and hacked through it with a swift, deliberate snip. The sound of the scissors slicing through the thick locks was almost satisfying — schhhk. A long, dark section of hair fell away and dropped to the floor with a heavy plop. Barry’s breath hitched, and I could see his eyes dart to the floor as more hair joined the growing pile of cut strands. But it didn’t stop there. The barberette picked up another large section and sliced through it as if the hair were nothing more than straw. Schk-schhhk. More hair fell, cascading down like a waterfall. The floor around Barry was becoming littered with locks of his hair, mixed with a few stray strands from my earlier haircut that still hadn’t been swept away.

Barry’s eyes were glued to the mirror, wide with disbelief. He was breathing fast, his shoulders rising and falling with every shaky breath. He hadn’t said a word, but I could tell he was already beginning to realise just how much hair was going to be lost today. And it was only just the beginning. With practised movements, the barberette continued, picking random sections of Barry’s hair, her shears snipping away in rhythmic bursts. Barry’s waves were quickly being reduced to uneven, jagged chunks of hair, falling onto the cape and the floor. It was almost like watching a sculptor at work, except instead of chiselling marble, the barberette was cutting away at Barry’s hair — a little bit at a time, but with every snip, more of his identity, his hubris, was being erased. And I watched it all, savouring every moment.

The barberette’s hands moved quickly, never hesitating, and before long, Barry’s hair was in shambles. His locks were reduced to a ragged, short mess. But still, this was only the beginning. The real transformation hadn’t even started yet.

I could tell Barry was getting nervous. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white. He was trying to hold it together — but deep down, I could see the panic rising.

The barberette took a step back, assessing her work. She seemed satisfied, but I knew she wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. She grabbed a comb and began to comb through what was left of Barry’s hair. Each tug made Barry wince, but he stayed silent, his expression now a mixture of fear and resignation. The barberette was going to finish what she started, no matter how much Barry protested inwardly.

The next round was coming — and I could hardly wait to see what would happen next. I couldn’t help but admire the sight in front of me. Barry, once so sure of himself now sat quietly in the chair, caped up, his once-mighty hair now strewn across the floor around him. The strands—some long, some shorter—had fallen in all directions, creating a messy carpet of hair beneath him. It was almost surreal to see, how his hair, once so thick and shiny, was now a tangled mess. Not as long or as dramatic as mine had been before my own reckless dare, but still, a part of me couldn’t help but acknowledge the amazing hair he had once had.
His face was tight with anxiety, his eyes darting to the floor, avoiding looking at his reflection. But as much as he might want to ignore the situation, I couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of it all. He had once dared me to sit in that chair, pushing me to get my hair hacked off. Now, it was his turn to be subjected to the very same fate.

The sight of him, sitting there under the black cape, completely unaware of what was coming, brought a twisted sense of satisfaction. It felt almost… poetic. He had been the one to make me face the consequences of my own dare, and now he was about to feel the same sting, though he had no idea just how much he was about to lose.

I watched closely as the barberette, seemingly aware of the tension in the air, began preparing for what was next. She gave the cape a tug, ensuring it was tight against Barry’s neck before she reached for the clippers. The hum of the clippers filled the air, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the barberette turned on the clippers, and I could feel the room tense. The sound grew louder as she held the clippers in her hand, ready to begin the transformation. I leaned in, my heart racing with excitement as I watched the barberette run the clippers through Barry’s hair, pushing them from his forehead all the way back to his crown. The clippers buzzed through hi hair in one swift motion, the sharp metal teeth biting into his strands and tearing them away effortlessly. Barry’s hair began to fall in thick clumps, tumbling down the front of the cape and onto the floor in a cascading waterfall of locks. I saw him flinch, the sound of the clippers almost too much for him to bear. His hair, which had once been so full and thick, was rapidly thinning out, piece by piece.

The barberette didn’t hesitate, moving the clippers with a practiced hand, gliding them across Barry’s forehead, leaving a trail of freshly shaved scalp in their wake. The buzz of the clippers was steady, methodical, and as Barry’s once-beautiful hair continued to fall away, I couldn’t help but smile. What really kept my attention, though, was Barry’s position. He couldn’t see what was happening to his hair in the mirror. Instead, he was forced to look directly at me, his wide eyes filled with fear and disbelief. The realization that he had no control over this, that he had to watch himself lose all of his hair while seeing me witness it firsthand, sent a thrill through me. The whole situation felt so perfect. He was trapped, his reflection out of reach, while I got to take it all in, savoring every moment.

I could see his face redden as the clippers continued their work. Each pass of the blade left more of his hair in my view, and I reveled in it. He couldn’t look away. He had to watch me enjoy it. The barberette kept cutting, methodically buzzing away at his thick locks, making his hair shorter and shorter. The sound of the clippers was oddly satisfying, punctuated by the soft swish of hair falling onto the cape and the floor.

The clippers buzzed again, and this time the barberette ran them down Barry’s hair, cutting it closer to the scalp with each pass. His thick hair was falling away in pieces, leaving him with less and less of what he had walked in with. I leaned forward, savoring every second, knowing that soon he would be left with only stubble.

His face twisted in a mix of emotions, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t hide from me or the reflection of his fate. I didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for him. This was justice. This was exactly what he deserved.The barberette worked with precision, her hands deftly manipulating Barry’s head as if he were a mannequin, positioning him to get the best angle. Every time Barry flinched or tried to resist, the barberette didn’t hesitate. She grasped his head firmly, turning it slowly, deliberately, forcing Barry into position. She was in complete control now, just as the situation demanded.

I watched, my eyes fixed on Barry’s face. He was trying to maintain some sense of dignity, but it was clear he couldn’t escape the inevitable. The barberette moved his head again, this time, tugging a bit harder than before, forcing him to face the back of the chair. It felt almost like a dance, Barry’s head following the rhythm of the clippers as they made their way up the back of his skull. The clippers buzzed louder as they traveled down the back of his neck, carving away chunks of his hair, which tumbled off his shoulders and onto the cape.

With each move, the barberette kept Barry’s head tilted just so, guiding him through the process, all while keeping the chair barely turned sideways—just enough so I wouldn’t miss a moment of the transformation. She knew what she was doing, and I appreciated it. It felt like an act of subtle defiance, one that made me feel even more in control of the situation. I wasn’t just watching. I was witnessing this.

Barry’s face flushed with discomfort as the barberette continued working, the sharp sound of clippers buzzing against his scalp echoing through the small space. The once thick strands of hair were disappearing faster than I had imagined. The barberette’s hands were swift, moving in and out with a practiced ease. The sharp, almost clinical sound of the clippers cutting through the last remnants of his hair only heightened the tension. Barry tried to adjust, to wriggle slightly in the chair, but the barberette was quick to maintain control, adjusting Barry’s head again, almost aggressively. I saw Barry wince as he was forced to face the side of the chair again. But the barberette was determined to keep him in my view, ensuring that I wouldn’t miss a single second of the show. Every clump of her hair that fell to the floor felt like another victory.

It was fascinating to see how Barry’s features tightened with each pass of the clippers. At one point, I could’ve sworn I saw a bead of sweat form on his forehead as he realized just how much of his identity was being stripped away, piece by piece. The chair barely shifted. Every time the barberette wanted a new angle, she simply turned Barry’s head just slightly, allowing me to follow every detail of the transformation. Barry’s sideburns were the next to go, swiftly buzzed away, leaving a smooth canvas. Then, the back of his neck was shaved clean, leaving nothing but bare skin.

I almost couldn’t contain my satisfaction. I’d been the one to get humiliated in the chair before. Now, I was watching Barry slowly lose the one thing he had so often flaunted—his hair. As the barberette continued to move Barry’s head with precision, I took in every moment. The small shifts in Barry’s expression, the way his breath hitched with every pass of the clippers, it was all building toward something even more final. This wasn’t just about the hair—it was about control, and I was thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

Finally, the barberette finished the final touch, her clippers humming as they buzzed the last of Barry’s hair into a short, uniform cut. She placed the clippers down with a soft click, stepping back to admire her work. Then the barberette spun Barry slowly, so he was directly facing the mirror. The reflection of Barry’s new hairstyle—so different from what he had known—stared back at him. His chest tightened as he took in the change. Barry was shocked by the results, his hair lying everywhere but on his head which was now just buzzed all over. He had to force back the tears, trying to remain strong. The barberette then stepped to the side and gave me a subtle look as if saying, "you have permission."

I didn’t need asking twice, I jumped up out the chair and skipped over. "Wow!" I said, running my hands all over his head, enjoying the feeling of the bristles. It was almost soothing.

"Why?" he asked.

"Karma," I simply said. "Now you know what I went through, just be thankful I chose not to record your predicament and post in on social media like you and Mike did. And don’t even think about telling him what happened, I’ve got something planned for him too," I said conspiratorially.

"I didn’t mean for it to happen, you were supposed to leave before anything happened," Barry defended.

"You shouldn’t have put me through it in the first place," I scolded, my hands now firmly gripping his caped shoulders. "You knew how much I loved my hair but you did it anyway, and you didn’t reassure me or anything afterwards, you just laughed it off like it was nothing."
"I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that," Barry said, his eyes looking down in shame.
I then turned to the barberette who was just watching from the side, not saying anything. I then stepped back, letting her do her job as she now unfastened the cape off of Barry, letting him get up out of the chair. He hesitantly got out of the chair, his legs slightly wobbling after the ordeal. "Thank you," he politely said to the barberette, although it was slightly awkward as she had just heard the whole thing.

"How much?" I asked the barberette.

"£15" she said bluntly.

I then got out my wallet and handed £15 to her. "Come on, let’s go home and we can put this behind us," I said, taking Barry’s arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze. I had to admit, he didn’t look bad with the buzzcut, even if his ears stuck out a bit.

We made our way out of the shop, strutting down the mall towards the exit, earning quite a few glances from passers-by which I ignored. Barry on the other hand tried to hide himself behind me a little bit but I didn’t care. The first stage of my plan was complete.
Now for the second…

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