Michael sat perfectly still, staring at his reflection with dead, soulless eyes. His hair—once normal, once respectable—now looked like a cross between a failed K-pop audition and a bird’s nest after a windstorm.
“I told you to just trim the sides,” he said, voice dangerously calm.
Curtis, holding the electric clippers with way too much confidence for someone with zero training, grinned. “Yeah, but I got a vision, dude.”
Michael clenched his jaw. “A vision?”
Curtis spun the chair dramatically. “Picture this: asymmetry. But, like, on purpose.”
Michael slowly turned back to the mirror. “My right side is bald, and my left side looks like a poodle.”
Curtis nodded proudly. “Exactly. Edgy. Unexpected. Art.”
Michael exhaled through his nose, counting to ten. “Remember when I said, ‘I’m trusting you with this, don’t screw it up’?”
Curtis waved a hand. “Bro, hair grows back. Besides, last time you said I played it too safe.”
“Because last time you gave me a bowl cut with zigzags.”
“Abstract geometry,” Curtis corrected.
Michael stood up, running a hand through what remained of his dignity. “I’m done. I have had it. No more practice. No more ‘just let me try something.’ You are not a hairstylist. You are a menace.”
Curtis sighed dramatically, crossing his arms. “You know, all the greats faced rejection before they were recognized for their genius.”
Michael pointed at his head. “This is not genius. This is a cry for help.”
“Whatever,” Curtis shrugged, already looking at his next victim—the dog.
Michael grabbed his keys. “I’m getting a real barber to fix this.”
Curtis called after him, “They won’t have my creative touch!”
Michael slammed the door. Curtis stared at the clippers, unbothered. “Guess I’ll just freestyle on myself then.”
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