The living room door opened, and Meghan limped in, favoring the leg that had taken a direct hit earlier. Every step was a fresh ache.
The room was a miserable space. The television was a bulky, outdated relic perched on a milk crate. The wallpaper peeled in greasy strips, barely clinging to the plaster. The chairs were threadbare, their cushions spitting foam, and the curtains—yellowed, ripped, and repulsive—did little to block the sickly light.
Meghan snatched the remote and stabbed the power button. The screen remained dark, a flat, black mirror.
"Fuck off!" she spat, tossing the remote aside. She caught herself just before it could clatter, lowering it onto the worn rug instead. Dad's only consolation.
"What the hell happened to the freaking electricity bill?" she muttered, the question aimed at no one.
She cursed, hissed a sharp breath, and sighed before climbing the stairs. Her wounded leg scraped against the wood on the ascent, the sound echoing hollowly in the quiet house.
Her room was little more than a cramped box. An old twin bed, barely big enough for her, let alone two people, sagged in the center. Her bookshelf, ancient and warped, was wedged precariously into the wall by a brick. The thin carpet had a massive, noticeable patch, and her nightstand, listing dangerously, held her Chemistry textbook.
She'd been studying all night, forgetting to pack it in her haste to flee for school that morning. She slammed the book shut and shoved it onto the shelf, beginning to strip for a shower. Before she could step into the bathroom, her cheap phone shrieked. The screen flashed: Tobi the Mob.
"Hello, Tobi," she said, managing a casual tone.
"Girl, are you okay? What's taking you so long? The place is buzzing, and we need an extra hand," he rattled off, his voice laced with concern.
When she didn't immediately reply, he panicked. "What's wrong? Did something happen at school?"
"No, it's nothing," she replied, wiping a tear that had escaped her eye with the back of her hand.
"Yeah, 'Meg,' that right now doesn't sound like 'nothing.' So, you want me to come over, or do you want to skip working for a day or two until you feel better?"
She shook her head, staring at her broken mirror. It offered a fractured side-view of the mess her classmates had made of her once-lush, golden hair. "None of the above, Tobi. I just want to be alone for now, but I'll be there tomorrow."
Tobi sighed heavily. "That's fine. I'll speak to Mr. Gilbert and tell him you're feeling sick. He'll understand."
She offered a genuine, though fleeting, smile, but the madness in her eyes remained fixed on her reflection.
"Rest easy, and don't worry or overwork yourself, girl. I'll be there first thing as soon as I close my shift."
"Yeah, thanks for checking up on me," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"No need. That's what friends are for, Meghan. All right, I'll see you later this evening."
The line went dead. Meghan tossed the phone onto the bed and finally headed for the shower.
TWO HOURS LATER, RHS SALON.
Meghan stood outside the gleaming barbering salon. She was dressed in her typical uniform: a gray, baggy hoodie and pants, her white sneakers worn thin but scrupulously clean. She pushed open the door, and the light inside felt blinding.
The environment was offensively high-end. A crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling. The floor was polished marble, and the walls were painted a vintage, muted gold—every detail bespoke a world of wealth and status. Meghan felt a familiar twist of resentment. This was the luxury that had once held her presence, a world lost only after her mother's betrayal.
A woman in a sharp black uniform approached her, a sneer of disgust creasing her face. "Hey, this establishment isn't for people like you. If you're not here for service, I suggest you leave before I call security."
Meghan was taken aback by the sheer rudeness. "Excuse me, I'm here for a haircut, not to steal, as you've clearly misinterpreted."
The woman's eyes flared. "You might have fooled me had I not seen your type." She gritted the word out, drawing the attention of several whispering patrons. "Do you possibly have the money to cut your hair here? Or are you out seeking the attention of rich boys who'd fall into your gold-digging trap?"
Meghan's temper flared, but she kept her voice level. An ordinary barbershop couldn't fix what Brenda had done to her hair; RHS was known for its corrective excellence. "Please excuse me, ma'am. I have nothing to say to you. I have money—plenty of it—so just let me pass."
The woman rolled her eyes, incredulous. "You don't know your place, do you? A haircut here costs nothing less than £250. Are you sure a pauper like yourself can afford that?"
Meghan pulled her phone from her pocket and thrust the screen in the woman's face. "There it is. £500. Are you happy?" she asked, her voice tight with suppressed fury.
A small crowd had gathered. The woman gasped, shame flickering across her face, but she didn't back down. "Hey, even if you do have money, it's not like anyone here's going to serve you in those shabby clothes."
Meghan scoffed, biting her lower lip as she glared at the woman. "If I were you, I'd leave here while you still have the face, or else..."
"Or else what?" A firm, authoritative voice cut in from behind Meghan.
The woman's pupils dilated. Sweat instantly beaded on her forehead. "Nothing, sir. Sorry... it's just that... this pau—"
"Enough! Someone drag this unfilial employee out of here. RHS is no longer in need of her service."
The woman dropped to her knees, begging and desperately apologizing, even addressing Meghan. Meghan remained silent, watching stone-faced as a security guard took the woman away.
The person who had intervened was Hugo Arnold, the owner of RHS, who often came in the evenings to personally offer haircuts. He turned to face Meghan, who was momentarily taken aback by the intensity of his gray eyes, which seemed to stare deep into her soul. He felt an instant, inexplicable draw to her but immediately dismissed it.
"Miss," he said, his expression grave. "I sincerely apologize for the inexcusable behavior of my staff. That is not the standard we keep here."
Meghan simply crossed her arms. "Apology accepted."
"Please," Hugo continued, offering a slight, professional bow. "Allow me to compensate you properly. I will personally cut your hair, of course, free of charge. And you can have any other treatment—manicure, facial—on the house."
Meghan stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't need your charity, Mr. Hugo," she replied flatly. "I already paid. All I want is a decent haircut. Nothing else."
Hugo led Meghan through the elegant salon, past the still-whispering patrons, to an isolated chair near the back. The space smelled faintly of expensive oils and fresh leather.
"Take a seat," he instructed gently, gesturing to a plush chair. "I promise, you won't regret staying."
Meghan obeyed, her movements stiff. As he draped a fine, black cape around her shoulders, his fingers brushed the ragged ends of her hair.
"Before we start," Hugo said, his tone softening, "I need to see the full extent of the damage."
Meghan nodded once. She reached back and pulled the baggy hood off her head, revealing the full mess. Her classmates hadn't just tangled or chopped it; they had hacked away brutally, leaving uneven tufts, bald spots near the crown, and jagged, broken ends that looked like coarse straw.
Hugo inhaled sharply. He hadn't expected it to be so severe. It was not merely a bad haircut; it was a deliberate act of vicious cruelty. He saw the cheap band-aids on her face, the limp, wounded posture, and the horrifying state of her hair. A wave of profound pity, mixed with quiet fury at the unknown perpetrators, washed over him.
He looked for a reaction—a flinch, a tear, anything—in Meghan's reflection in the mirror. He found nothing. Her eyes, those unsettling gray depths, stared straight ahead, completely vacant of emotion. She sat like a statue, a clear and chilling sign that this level of mistreatment was something she had tragically become accustomed to.
"I..." Hugo started, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. He recovered quickly, adopting a professional, reassuring tone. "Don't worry about this," he said, his gaze locking with hers in the mirror. "I'm going to make sure you look real good. Really beautiful."
Meghan didn't smile, nor did her expression soften. Her eyes didn't even blink as he reached for the clippers. Her utter lack of hope or concern was more unnerving than any outburst would have been.
Hugo understood then that this wasn't just about cutting hair; it was about restoration, about stripping away the ugly reminder of the violence she had endured.
He went to work immediately. The sharp whir of the electric clippers filled the air. Hugo was meticulous, carefully taking the length down, lower than a typical feminine style. He shaped it into a clean, female low cut, its texture tight and precise. Then, with a surgical hand, he etched a fine, sharp line into the hair above her left temple. The messy, victimized hair was gone, replaced by something fierce, clean, and uncompromisingly bold.
When he finished, he brushed the final stray hairs from her neck.
"Take a look," he murmured, stepping back.
Meghan finally looked, truly looked, at her reflection. The Girl staring back at her was still Meghan, but harder, sharper. The severe cut framed her wounded face, making the band-aids look less like injuries and more like badges of battle. The cut was a statement. It was Powerful and beautiful too.
"Thank you. Meghan said walking towards the direction of the cashier. "Hello your bills have already been covered. The cashier replied.
Meghan bit her lips her nails digging into her palm. "I don't recall paying for anything. She argued in a low voice.
The cashier looked puzzled but doesn't say a word. "They've been payed for Ma'am that's all I can say.
Meghan turned searching Hugo but he had disappeared from sight and is now hiding at the back of the pillar upstairs. She left salon with feeling down and her
pride insulted the mood alleviating because she knew she had a haircut and the £500 would could be managed.