Hypnotized to get a haircut by just got a haircut

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The last time I’d sat in a barber’s chair was three months ago. My hair had crossed that line between "grown out" and "unruly." It curled where it wasn’t supposed to, puffed up at the sides, brushed my collar in a way that constantly reminded me it was there. I pretended it didn’t bother me—but it did. More than that, I had a thing about haircuts. Control. Surrender. The moment of no return.

For weeks, I’d been having the same thought on repeat: What if I didn’t back out this time?
What if I actually let it happen?

One late night, scrolling mindlessly through social media, I stumbled into a conversation with a stranger. No real names, no faces at first—just words. Somehow, the topic drifted there. Hair. Barbers. That strange mix of fear and excitement. He understood immediately. No judgment. No pressure. Just a quiet confidence in the way he talked about it, like it was inevitable.

"You don’t have to fight it forever," he said.
That sentence stayed with me.

By the end of the week, I found myself standing outside a local barbershop, heart thudding harder than it had any right to. The glass window reflected my messy hair back at me, almost accusing. I pushed the door open anyway.

The smell hit first—aftershave, talc, clean metal. Clippers buzzed somewhere behind me. I took a seat and waited, palms sweating, knees bouncing. Every man who finished before me walked out lighter, cleaner, untouched by regret. I wondered which version of myself would leave when it was my turn.

"Next."

I stood up before I could change my mind and sat in the chair. The cape snapped around my neck, tight and final. The barber met my eyes in the mirror.

"So, what are we doing today?"

This was the moment I’d rehearsed in my head a hundred times. I swallowed.

"Uh… #1 all over."

The words hung there, heavy. Even the barber paused for half a second, just enough to make it real.

"Alright," he said simply.

He reached for the clippers. The click as he turned them on sounded louder than anything else in the room. A deep, mechanical hum filled my ears—and my chest tightened. I wanted to stop him. I wanted to laugh it off, say I was joking, ask for a trim instead.

I didn’t.

Without ceremony, he placed the clippers at my forehead.

The first pass was shocking. Cold metal against skin, the vibration traveling straight through my scalp. I watched in the mirror as a thick strip of hair vanished instantly, falling in dark clumps onto the white cape. My breath caught. My stomach dropped.

What did I just do?

Another pass. Then another. The barber moved with confidence, steady and efficient, like this was the most normal thing in the world. The clippers carved clean paths through months of growth, exposing pale skin underneath. Each stroke made the reality sink in deeper—there was no undoing this.

The air felt colder with every inch of hair removed. I could feel the shape of my head emerging, every contour suddenly undeniable. Hair slid down my shoulders, collecting in my lap, silent proof of my decision.

Regret hit hard—but so did something else. A strange release. The thing I’d been dreaming about, fearing, circling for so long, was happening. Not in my head. Not on a screen. Right there, under bright lights, with nowhere to hide.

When the barber finally clicked the clippers off, the silence rang in my ears. He brushed the loose hair from my neck, light and professional.

"All done."

I stared at my reflection. My hair—gone. Reduced to stubble. My face looked different. Exposed. Honest.

I felt naked.

As I stood up and the cape came off, the last of my hair slid to the floor. I stepped out of the shop. I’m never doing this again.

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