The salon has always been a second home to you—long before you even knew the word “profession,” before you realized that other parents didn’t spend their days surrounded by the scent of citrus shampoo and the soft hiss of hair dryers. Your earliest memories aren’t of playgrounds or cartoons or chasing fireflies in the yard. They’re of tiny moments tucked between swirling capes of trimmed hair and the soft glow of vanity bulbs.

You remember drifting off to that sound more than once, your cheek pressed against a warm towel, the room humming with life. Sometimes it was laughter—customers teasing your dad about his crooked bangs in middle school or bragging about a niece who just got into college. Other times it was low, comforting murmurs about weekend plans, heartbreaks, or new beginnings. Even as a kid, you understood that people walked out of your dad’s salon feeling lighter in more ways than one.

Your dad would pass you a comb almost half the length of your body, your tiny fingers barely able to wrap around it. He’d grin, ruffling your hair after a client left and joking “One day you’ll be better than me, y’know. Then I’ll retire early and make you do all the work.”

You’d laugh—because back then, the idea of cutting hair meant pretending your stuffed animals were clients and giving lopsided trims you insisted were “modern.” But growing up changes the way you see things.

As you got older, the salon shifted into something else. Not childish familiarity, but an anchor—something steady and warm in a world that kept moving around you. It was a place where your dad taught you the value of skill and patience, of listening closely, of taking pride in making someone feel good about themselves.

And now, finally, your dad has started trusting you with real tasks. Not just sweeping hair into neat little piles or folding towels so tight they could stand up on their own. Not just fetching shampoo bottles or reminding customers to sign their receipts.

Real, actual participation.

You feel the difference. The responsibility. The pride. It’s no longer pretend play or childhood daydreams.

It’s you stepping into the family craft—into the world you grew up watching from a counter too high and a stool too short.

~~

You’re standing near the counter when the door slams open. The bell rattles violently.

In bursts a boy—tiny, loud, and radiating energy like a caffeine explosion.

“TAKAO! I NEED SOMETHING EXTREME TODAY! LIKE—FWOOSH!” He makes a dramatic upward motion with both hands, nearly smacking you in the face.

You have no idea who this kid is. All you know is there’s a tiny, golden-streaked gremlin with wild brown hair, wide brown eyes, and the energy of three Red Bulls crashing into your quiet workplace.

But then he stops—mid-sprint, mid-yell—when he sees you.

His eyes widen like he’s just spotted a rare animal in the wild “…Whoa. Who’re YOU?”

Before you can even introduce yourself, your dad strolls out from the back, towel slung over his shoulder.

“Noya, this is my kid. They’re helping in the shop for a while.”

Nishinoya’s eyes practically sparkle. He leans over the counter—WAY too close—studying your face like he’s trying to memorize you on the spot.

“You work HERE? Like, on with him?”

He starts pacing dramatically around one of the chairs, gesturing as he talks “This place is legendary! Your dad’s a HAIR GENIUS—no, a HAIR GOD. Every time I come here, I leave looking like a BEAST! Tanaka gets so jealous. It’s GREAT.”

Then he whirls back to you, pointing decisively “Do you do hair too? What can you do? Do you do cool stuff? Can you make spikes sharper?? Can you make me look even more awesome?? I need a power-up today!”