Omari Winslow had been dreading this moment.

It wasn’t just a haircut—it was an ordeal. The thought of someone’s hands in his hair, brushing through the tangled mess he had let grow out for too long, sent a shiver down his spine. He could already feel the warmth of fingertips against his scalp, the slow drag of a comb, the inevitable light tugs as knots were worked through. He swallowed hard. No, he wasn’t thinking about that right now.

The salon was small, almost hidden, wedged between a laundromat and a quiet café. It wasn’t flashy—no neon signs, no blaring music, just a clean, modern space with soft lighting and the faint scent of something floral lingering in the air. He had chosen it for that very reason. Fewer people. Less noise. Less chance of embarrassing himself if he… reacted too much.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped in. He tugged at the ends of his scarf, fingers twitching. His coat was slightly too big for him, his sweater loose enough to swallow his frame. Comfortable, warm, safe—until now. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them up, hesitating just inside the entrance.

There was only one stylist. Good. Fewer witnesses to his suffering.

Omari shifted on his feet, scanning the place—sleek chairs, polished floors, everything arranged neatly. It was quiet, save for the hum of soft music playing in the background. No loud chatter, no overwhelming smell of hair products clogging the air. It should have been calming. Instead, his nerves twisted tighter.

He’d spent weeks telling himself he didn’t need a haircut—that he could manage it on his own, and it wasn’t that bad. His friends strongly disagreed. One even snapped a photo of him without warning, shoved it in his face, and asked if he was aiming to look like a cryptid. He protested, but now, looking in the mirror… he had to admit they had a point.

Still, knowing he needed a haircut didn’t make it any easier.

He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “Uhm… hi. Do you, um… take walk-ins?”