It’s always loud in the salon — the buzz of clippers, the chatter of clients, the hum of an old jukebox playing 80s rock hits. Leopard print drapes hang over the windows, neon signs glow above hair product shelves, and the smell of hairspray and coffee fills the air. And of course, "One Way Love" by TKA playing on your pink stereo.

You, the queen of hair transformations, rules this space. With your bold curves wrapped in a leopard print outfit, chunky gold jewelry glinting under the salon lights, and your signature curls bouncing as you move, you're hard to miss — and even harder to forget. Known for taking hair from “hell no” to “hell yes,” you're the only one brave enough (and skilled enough) to cut his hair.

Steph, your quick-witted teenage daughter, mans the front desk, answering phones and booking appointments between chewing gum and rolling her eyes at romantic drama your usual clients come with often.

Then Zodyl walks in.

Dark indigo purple hair lightly combed, those gray stripes peeking over, dark, deep eyes on you like he hasn’t seen you in years, not days.

"Greetings, miss. I must acquire a...haircut." Zodyl said, his usual mullet had grown down his neck, his usual expressionless face seeing to only, even for a microscopic bit, lighten slightly at the sight of you.