The Sign in the Window by KF_NDN

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The Sign in the Window

The sign hung slightly crooked in the shop window:
**"Clipper Cut â€" Only €5!"**
Underneath, someone had written in smaller letters:
**"For students and pupils â€" today’s special offer!"**

I’d walked past that sign countless times — every day on my way through the mall, between the drugstore and the ice‑cream shop. It had been there for weeks, then disappeared for a while, and suddenly it was back again today — bright, clean, maybe even newly printed.

Five euros. That didn’t seem suspiciously cheap, just affordable.
And honestly, what could go wrong with a haircut? It was just hair.

I pushed open the glass door. The bell jingled, and the smell of shampoo, coffee and warm air met me immediately.

A young woman with highlighted hair popped up behind the counter. "Hi! Appointment?"
"No," I said. "I saw the sign. Haircut for five euros?"
"Exactly! Student offer, right?"
"Yeah, student."
"Perfect! Take a seat — my colleague will do it in a second."

I sat down in the small waiting corner beside a shelf of styling gels and sprays. The shop was brightly lit, and glossy posters of men’s haircuts covered the walls — square faces, sharp fades, smooth skin.

Then **he** appeared: the barber. Mid‑thirties maybe, lean, charismatic in a slightly weird way. He had a blond **mullet**, cropped tight at the sides, long on top and slicked back, the light catching in his earring.
"Clipper cut, yeah?" he asked cheerfully.
"Uh… yeah, I think so?"
"Perfect. Come on over."

He turned the chair, swung the cape around me, fastened it tightly at my neck. Every movement was automatic, sure, too quick to question. He studied my hair.
"Honestly," he said, squinting slightly, "perfect timing. Your sides already cover your ears, the back’s curling up, and the top has no idea where it wants to go. Time for some air, huh?"

I nodded, a little uneasy but curious. My hair wasn’t bad — just a bit long, messy, overdue. I figured he’d tidy it up with scissors, maybe thin out the top, nothing drastic.

Then the girl came back, phone in hand. "Wait — a before photo, for the promo!"
"A photo?" I blinked.
"Just for the fun album," she laughed, pressing the button. *Click.*

The barber wiped down his counter, plugged in a cable.
I glanced at him in the mirror. "So what exactly is a ‘clipper cut’?"
He didn’t look up. "Means clippers instead of scissors. Quicker, clean, even. You’ll see."
At that point I started to wonder why that difference would matter so much. But I didn’t ask.

The clippers hummed to life — deep, steady, almost soothing.
He placed one hand firmly on my head, the other holding the buzzing machine at my neck. Cold metal touched skin. Then vibration — a low mechanical buzz that travelled through my whole skull.
I felt something falling away, heard a rhythm of *brrr‑scrape‑brrr*, and saw dark locks sliding down the cape, thick and heavy.

"Relax," he said easily. "Everything’s under control."

Row by row he worked upward from the nape to the middle of the head. I tilted my eyes sideways — large, dense tufts dropped in slow motion.

He switched to the right side and said casually, "We’ll go with three millimeters — that’s the standard length."
I nodded. In my head, I turned that into **three centimeters** — short, but fine. Totally normal.

The clippers slid over my ear, and the skin underneath looked pale, almost bare. A draft brushed the spot — and only then did I realize that **three millimeters** weren’t **three centimeters** at all.
I froze. *That’s practically nothing.*

The barber kept going, calm and automatic. Left side now — same sound, same rhythm. My heart raced, but I couldn’t make myself speak. I just stared at my reflection, watching the shape of me change as clumps of hair — too big to be called strands — slid off and gathered on the cape.

Then he moved to the front. "Head straight, don’t move." The metallic gleam flashed in the mirror’s edge. The machine touched my forehead and chewed slowly into the top layer — dry hair cracking under the blades, each pass deeper, rougher. Heavy strands folded, dropped, curled along my shoulders before tumbling down.

Another long pass, then silence. Only the hum of the air‑con, my breathing.
He blew gently on the clipper, set it down, and took a small brush, flicking loose bits from my neck and temples. For a second I closed my eyes. Cool air touched every part of my skin. Every pore felt newly awake.

He smiled at me in the mirror. "Well, that looks clean."
I stared back — no movement left in my hair, just even, pale stubble across scalp and temples, rough like fine sandpaper.
"Pretty short," I murmured.
"That’s a clipper cut," he said. "But it suits you — fresher, lighter. Go ahead, feel it."

I lifted my hand. Ran it over the sides. The sound was soft and rasping, like brushing fabric against fabric. My fingertips tingled. The texture was strange — firm, buzzy, alive.
"Feels weird," I admitted.
"Admit it — kind of awesome." He grinned.

The girl appeared again. "After photo!" *Click.*

I stood, the cape fell away, dark hairs scattered onto the tiles like feathers. The barber dusted off my neck. I reached for my wallet, laid a shiny five‑euro coin on the counter.

"Thanks, man," he said. "Come back anytime. You’re officially student of the day."

I smiled awkwardly, nodded, stepped outside.

Warm air hit instantly. One step from the cool shop into sunlight — it felt different, open, exposed. I brushed my fingers across my head; the resistance was coarse, each tiny hair prickling like static.

With every step I felt the wind push across scalp and temples, a rushing, electric sensation. There was no weight anymore — just texture, every movement a ripple through the skin.

At home, I stopped in front of the mirror. No hairstyle, no shape, no style product — just clear lines and bare skin. I ran my palm again across the top toward the light. Odd. Honest.

A few days later I passed through the mall again. Music, chatter, the smell of fries in the air. My eyes instinctively searched for the salon.

In the window hung new photos. In the center — mine.
Above it: a shot of me before, just an ordinary student with messy hair.
Below: the "after" — bright, sharp, clean.

I stood there, frozen somewhere between pride and disbelief. The short stubble gleamed in the sunlight.

I lifted my hand, felt that same soft rasp across my scalp — the warmth, the electric little spark of it. And then I laughed.

Five euros, I thought. And somehow, those tiny bristles actually looked kind of good. I even wished I’d stepped inside weeks earlier.

That evening, in front of the bathroom mirror, I raised my phone, took a selfie, and sent it to my friends with a single caption:
**"Fresh start."**

And for a moment, I knew — that’s exactly what it was.

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