I Want it to be Easy. by teenbuzz3217

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School was out, and summer had finally arrived—the kind that didn’t just announce itself, but settled in. It clung to the sidewalks, shimmered above the pavement, wrapped itself around your neck the second you stepped outside. Everything felt slower. Looser. Like the world had collectively decided to stop trying so hard.

Chris felt it too.

His last class had ended that morning. No more assignments. No more deadlines. Just a half-packed room, a train ticket home for tomorrow, and the strange, weightless feeling of being temporarily unaccountable to anything.

Except—

His hair.

It had become its own responsibility.

Not in a casual, "I should probably get a trim soon" kind of way. No—this had escalated. His wavy brown hair, usually controlled and intentional, had crossed into something else entirely. The front still held onto its identity—a soft quiff that framed his face just right—but the rest?

The sides had thickened. The back had grown past the point of "flow" and into something bordering on rebellion. It curled over his collar, puffed outward when it dried, and refused to sit flat no matter how much effort he put in.

And he had tried.

Different products. Less product. More product. Air-drying. Blow-drying. That one desperate morning where he leaned fully into it and tried to make the "flow" a personality trait.

It looked good… but it was exhausting.

Every shower felt like a commitment. Every morning felt like a negotiation. And now, with the heat settling in, it wasn’t just annoying—it was suffocating.

It had to go.

Not everything. He wasn’t trying to reinvent himself overnight. Just… simplify. Clean it up. Take it shorter than usual. Something that still looked like him, just less high-maintenance.

Manageable.

Easy.

He had an appointment at 2.

—

By 11:30, he was already at his second drink.

What was supposed to be a quick goodbye with friends turned into one of those afternoons that stretches without permission. One drink becomes two, then someone orders a round, then someone brings up a story from the semester that demands reenactment, and suddenly you’re laughing louder than necessary in the middle of the day like time isn’t real.

Chris checked his phone at one point.

1:47.

"S**t."

He stood up too fast, laughed it off, said his goodbyes in a rush that didn’t match the tone of the afternoon, and headed out.

The air hit him immediately—thick, warm, and slightly disorienting. Combined with the drinks, it made everything feel just a step off. Not bad. Just… softened around the edges.

By the time he reached the barbershop, he was in that dangerous in-between state: confident enough to make decisions, but not precise enough to make good ones.

The bell above the door rang as he stepped inside.

Everything was familiar. The hum of clippers. The low murmur of conversation. The faint scent of aftershave and disinfectant. It grounded him a little.

His barber looked up and smiled.

"Chris! Right on time."

"Barely," Chris said, grinning.

He dropped into the chair. Cape. Neck strip. The ritual began.

For a moment, looking at himself in the mirror, he felt normal again. In control. Like this was just another routine haircut.

Then came the million dollar question.

"So what are we doing today?"

Chris ran his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the back like it had personally offended him.

"I’m over it," he said. "Like… this whole back situation? Too much. I like it, but it’s just—annoying. And it’s hot. I just want everything shorter than usual."

The barber nodded slowly, reading between words that weren’t fully formed.

"Got it… how short?"

Chris hesitated.

This was the moment where, on any other day, he would’ve been specific. Measured. Clear.

Instead, he shrugged.

"I just don’t wanna deal with it anymore. I want it to be easy."

"Easy?" the barber repeated.

Chris nodded, more decisively than he felt.

"Yeah. Easy."

There was a pause.

A tiny one.

But enough.

"Alright," the barber said.

And just like that, the interpretation became his.

—

The clippers started at the back.

BZZZZZ.

A clean line at the nape.

Chris felt the first chunk of hair fall away and immediately felt relief. Actual, physical relief. Like air finally reaching skin that hadn’t felt it in weeks.

Yes, he thought. This is exactly what I needed.

The barber worked upward with a #1 guard, clearing out the bulk with efficient, practiced strokes. Hair fell in soft waves onto the cape, then to the floor.

So far, so good.

Then the sides.

The clippers moved higher than usual.

Faster.

More committed.

Chris’s eyes flicked to the mirror. His eyebrow raised just slightly.

Okay… we’re going shorter than usual. That’s fine, he told himself. That’s what I said.

He stayed quiet.

Because technically, nothing was wrong.

Yet.

The fade climbed higher. The sides got tighter. The shape of his haircut—his usual shape—started to disappear.

But Chris was already rationalizing it.

It’ll blend. It always blends.

The clippers stopped.

The barber stepped back, reached up, and grabbed a section of hair from the top, pulling it straight up.

"2? 3?"

Chris squinted.

Everything slowed down for a second—not in reality, but in his head.

Three inches is a lot, he thought. Two is safer. Start with two.

"Uh… 2," he said.

He barely finished the word before—

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

A strip of hair vanished down the center of his head.

Chris froze.

It didn’t register immediately.

Then the second pass came.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

And suddenly it did.

"WAIT—hey!" Chris jerked forward slightly, eyes wide. "I said 2!"

"This is a 2," the barber replied calmly, not stopping.

And that’s when it clicked.

Not inches.

Guard size.

Chris’s stomach dropped so fast it felt physical.

"No, I didn’t mean—like—I wanted some length on top!"

"You said easy," the barber said, continuing across his head, each pass removing another piece of the version of himself he had walked in with. "This is easy. No styling. Nothing to worry about."

And the worst part?

Chris couldn’t even argue it properly.

Because he had said that.

He just hadn’t meant it like this.

—

The rest of the haircut happened in a blur he couldn’t stop.

Hair fell. Buzzing filled his ears. The mirror became something he looked at but didn’t fully process. Every time he tried to form a sentence, it died halfway up his throat.

It was too late.

Way too late.

By the time the barber blended the fade into skin and smoothed everything out, Chris’s head felt… exposed. Lighter, yes—but in a way that bordered on unfamiliar.

When it was finally over, the barber brushed him off and turned the chair toward the mirror.

"Take a look."

Chris did.

And for a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

Not in a dramatic, identity-crisis way—but in that quiet, jarring way where something so familiar is suddenly… different.

His face looked sharper. His features stood out more. His hair—if you could even call it that anymore—was uniform, close, almost military clean.

A #2 on top.

Skin fade on the sides.

No hiding it. No styling it. No fixing it.

Just… there.

Chris slowly raised his hand and ran it across his head.

It made a soft, scratchy sound.

He did it again.

Same feeling.

Same disbelief.

"Easy," the barber said with a small nod.

Chris let out a short, hollow laugh.

"Yeah," he said. "Easy."

—

Outside, the heat hit him again—but this time, it felt different.

Lighter.

His neck was completely exposed. The breeze—barely there as it was—actually reached his skin. For a split second, he understood the appeal.

Then the reality settled back in.

He walked a few steps, then stopped.

Ran his hand over his head.

Again.

And again.

People passed by. No one reacted. No one cared.

Which somehow made it feel even more surreal.

Because to Chris, everything had changed in the span of ten careless seconds.

He pulled out his phone, opened the camera, and stared at himself again.

Still real.

Still short.

Still not what he meant.

He locked the screen, exhaled, and started walking.

Tomorrow, he’d go home.

And everyone would see it.

His friends. His family.

The haircut he didn’t plan.

The one he accidentally asked for.

He rubbed his head again, a small, disbelieving smile creeping in despite himself.

"Easy," he muttered.

And kept walking.

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