The salon in Cheongdam-dong didn't look like a place to get a haircut. It looked like a laboratory where they cloned supermodels.
Everything was white marble, gold trim, and terrifyingly silent.
"Sit," Chae-rin commanded, pointing to a black leather hydraulic chair.
I looked at the chair. It looked like an execution device.
"Chae-rin, wait," I pleaded, clutching my messy, grown-out bangs protectively. "We can talk about this. This hair... it's my identity. It's the dignity of a rocker! You can't just shear me like a sheep!"
"It is the source of a health code violation," Chae-rin countered, crossing her arms. "And if you want to stand on that stage with me, you need to look like you belong there. Unless you want me to cancel the performance right now?"
The threat hung in the air.
I thought about the hours of practice. The song we wrote. The G-Dragon endorsement.
I slumped. I had no choice.
"Fine," I whispered, a single tear threatening to form. "Just... be gentle."
A stylist named 'Director Han'—who wore a suit better than my school uniform—approached me with a pair of scissors that gleamed menacingly.
"The concept?" he asked Chae-rin, ignoring me completely.
"Modern. Sharp. Idol standard," Chae-rin directed, tapping her chin. "But keep the texture. He needs to look expensive, but approachable."
"Understood."
I closed my eyes.
Snip.
I flinched. There went the spirit of grunge.
Snip. Snip.
There went my indie cred.
For forty minutes, I sat in darkness, listening to the sound of my rocker dignity falling to the floor in clumps. I felt cold air hitting the back of my neck for the first time in months. I felt sprays of expensive-smelling mist. I felt a hair dryer blasting my face.
"Open," Chae-rin's voice said.
I hesitated. I was afraid to look.
"San. Open your eyes."
I slowly peeled my eyes open.
I wasn't facing the mirror. The chair was spun around, facing Chae-rin.
She was sitting on a waiting sofa, scrolling on her phone. She looked up, annoyed.
"Finally, let's see the dam—"
Her voice died in her throat.
She froze.
Her green eyes widened slightly behind her glasses.
She scanned my face, from the clean neckline to the styled forehead. She opened her mouth to make a snarky comment, but nothing came out.
Then, something miraculous happened.
A faint, pink flush crept up her neck and settled on her pale cheeks. She quickly looked down at her tablet, then back up at me, looking flustered.
"You are..." she stammered, clearing her throat. "You are... Something."
"Something good? Or something tragic?" I asked, terrified by her reaction.
She stood up, regaining her composure, though her ears were still pink. She walked over, grabbed a hand mirror from the counter, and shoved it into my hands.
"Look for yourself."
I lifted the mirror.
I gasped.
The wild, homeless-looking exchange student was gone. Staring back at me was... well, a K-Pop idol.
Director Han had given me the "Comma" hairstyle—bangs parted and curled inward to frame my forehead in the shape of a comma. It was sleek, trendy, and sophisticated. The cut accentuated my jawline, which I had forgotten existed under the mop of hair.
But he hadn't covered everything. My freckles—the ones I usually tried to hide—were visible, dusting my nose and cheeks. Instead of looking childish, with this hair, they looked... unique. Like a concept.
"Who is this guy?" I whispered, touching the hair. It was stiff with product.
"That is San 2.0," Chae-rin said, standing behind me in the reflection. "The version that is going to win."
She tapped my shoulder.
"But listen carefully, Commoner. This style requires maintenance. You will need to wash your hair every day and style it. If you show up with greasy hair again, I will shave it all off."
I looked at myself, turning my head side to side.
"Wash every day?" I sighed, looking at my handsome reflection.
"Let's go," Chae-rin said, turning away to hide her face again. "We still need to buy you a suit."