--

“Chop off my hair. All of it.”

A bleached, masterly-styled fauxhawk tilted upwards as its owner acknowledged the new arrival.

“Just chop it off, Sunny. I’m done with it.”

“Good evening, friend. It’s been forever! I missed seeing you, too!” Sunny smirked wryly.

Yuri sighed, fiddling with a wrapper in the counter candy dish. “Hi, Sunny. Good to see you again.”

“It’s been months.”

The taller girl scratched at the back of her ear. “I’ve been preoccupied with life.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

Sunny cracked open the appointment booklet. “Enough said. So, when can I pencil you in?”

“I need this hair chopped off now. Can you do it?”

“No can do. I have a dye job in five.”

“How about Sooyoung? She normally takes care of me.”

The girl bobbed her head to the music blaring from a single earbud, a manicured pinky running across the dated lines of the planner. “She’s out. Return date: to be determined.”

“You have no idea?”

“She’s run away to another land--wrapped in the arms of a dashing man for a torrid love affair.”

Yuri’s eyebrows crinkled, bewildered. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

She slapped the book shut. “No joke. Our dear Sooyoung decided to pursue hot, hot passion at the busiest time of the season.”

The bustling interior of the hair salon didn’t go unnoticed. Even on slower days, walk-ins were discouraged. “So, what’s the wait time?”

Her prospects of a drastic hair change grew bleaker and bleaker as Sunny’s eyes roamed the setting. Ready to receive a less-than-satisfactory answer, she scanned the waiting area for an empty chair.

“Fany could squeeze you in forty-five minutes from now.”

“Tiffany, really?!” Yuri shuddered, images from the debacle forever known as “Perm-Gate” flying through her mind.

“Yes. Her shaky hands aren’t nearly as bad as--hey!” Sunny waved to the newest incomer.

Yuri only caught the end of a slender arm waving back before the person disappeared into the back room.

“That’s Sooyoung’s cousin. The new girl.” Sunny hissed, voice dripping with gossip. “She barely talks to anyone. Mainly keeps to herself. Half the staff doesn’t know how to approach her.”

“Yikes.”

“Apparently, she’s an ace with hair. I haven’t seen her in action yet. Tiffany says she’s good.”

And Tiffany’s opinion meant next to nothing. “Is she available?”

“Very. She’s having a hard time attracting customers with her...lack of engagement. Her station is at the end. You’ll know it by the mirror covered in obscure foreign band pictures.”

“Are you setting me up for Perm-Gate: Two?”

“Do you want your hair cut or not?”

Defeated, Yuri’s bottom lip stuck out in a pout. This change became even less predictable than originally imagined.

She threw a wave to the familiar hairstylists, making her way to the station farthest away. She plopped into the cushioned seat, spinning around a few times out of habit. With the heel of her sneaker, she skidded to a stop to view the new girl approaching.

Fuschia Ray-Bans covered half of an obviously disinterested visage. Shiny chestnut hair swept to the side of her head--nothing radical, but obviously healthy. A baggy T-shirt displaying the single word “WIN” in English tucked into floral patterned shorts adorned with a bulky canary yellow belt. She scuffed her loosely-tied boots against the floor, barely paying mind to the woman staring.

Not exactly what Yuri expected. She looked down at her own outfit. A simple button-down top and skinny jeans. The new girl looked in her early twenties--about her same age, but she felt the wrong side of forty in this one's presence.

She bowed in her seat. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kwon Yuri.”

No response. She intently thumbed away at her iPhone.

Perhaps she didn’t hear? “Sunny tells me you’re new. That’s exciting!”

The phone clacked against the counter of the station. Rather than replying to the warm words, the woman tinkered with her own hair in the mirror. Yuri watched her through its reflection.

“C-cool tattoo.”

She momentarily brushed the edge of an intricate dragon etched onto the skin of her neck with rounded fingertips. If not for that reaction, Yuri would have assumed her to be deaf.

Not deaf. Rude.

Anger bubbling, Yuri squeezed the arms of the salon chair, prepared to storm off and wait that frustrating forty-five minutes for a stylist with shaky hands. Then, the girl did it.

She removed the sunglasses.

Yuri almost choked on her spit. The rude hairstylist was stunning. Clean-cut features, bright eyes, and glossy pink lips down-turned in a blasé fashion.

The grip on the chair loosened against her now sweaty palms. She folded her arms to hide them, subtly wiping the moisture onto her shirt. “I want--um...I want...”

What did Yuri want?

Pretty eyes met hers through the mirror.

She