The Mirror's Edge | Part 1

“The first snip echoed louder than it should have—like a warning I didn’t understand until it was too late.”

I never planned to walk into that salon.

It was raining, and my usual place was closed. The tiny shop on the corner had no name—just a fogged glass door and a soft red glow from within. Something about it pulled me in. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

The woman inside didn’t smile. She had sharp cheekbones, tightly tied hair, and eyes that seemed to look straight through me. Without a word, she gestured toward the chair. I hesitated, then sat.

The black cape she wrapped around me was heavier than I expected. It didn’t feel like cloth. It felt like surrender.

“Just a trim,” I whispered.

She nodded—but her eyes told a different story.

She began combing my hair, slowly, deliberately. Her fingers moved with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Yet there was something off. She wasn’t just detangling. She was observing. Measuring. Judging.

Then she leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “You’ve been carrying the weight of your past. Let me set you free.”

Before I could speak, I heard it.

Snip.

A thick strand of my hair fell to the floor. My breath caught in my throat. That wasn’t a trim.

I looked up at the mirror—but the reflection didn’t feel like mine anymore. The stylist’s expression was calm, almost serene. She picked up another section, raised her scissors again, and—

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Hair tumbled like silk ribbons to the ground. I wanted to stop her, to say something—but a strange calm washed over me. It was as if with every cut, something heavy was being lifted. Regret. Pain. Doubt.

I watched, frozen, as long sections of my hair disappeared. My neck began to feel exposed, unfamiliar. Vulnerable.

Then came the clippers.

She flicked them on with a soft hum, and I saw her eyes change. Fierce. Focused. Reverent.

She pressed them to the back of my neck and began shaving upward, slow and precise. My eyes widened. This wasn’t just a haircut—it was a transformation.

With every buzz, a piece of the old me disappeared.

When she was done, she gently unfastened the cape, brushing off stray hairs. I stood up, numb. My hand went to the back of my head—and I gasped.

Smooth. Bare. Clean.

I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror.

But for the first time in a long time…

She looked free.

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story? Or would you prefer a romantic or horror twist next?