The Boy in the Chair

The tiny salon smelled like lavender and hairspray, tucked between a noodle shop and a coin laundry on a quiet Tokyo side street. Inside, pink scissors hung on the wall in neat rows — all of them cute, all of them Mio's.

Mio stood behind the salon chair, humming softly, her black hair tucked beneath her pink beret. Her pink-and-black dress was perfectly pressed. Her fishnets didn't have a single snag.

And her favourite scissors — the pink ones with the tiny heart on the handle — were already in her hand.

"I hate this," said the boy in the chair. "I really, truly hate this."

Takumi — brown hair, round glasses, a green jacket two sizes too comfortable — gripped the armrests like the chair might suddenly fall off a cliff.

"Taka," Mio said sweetly, "you say that every single time."

"And every single time," he replied, "I mean it."

Mio smiled. She always did.

The Purple Beret Problem

Mio's scissors were already moving — snip, snip, snip — little bits of Takumi's brown hair floating down like autumn leaves.

"Hold still," she said.

"I am holding still."

"Taka, you are vibrating."

"That's just my personality."

The salon door swung open with a loud bang.

A girl marched in. She had bright blonde hair, a purple beret tilted sideways, a purple dress, and purple star-shaped sunglasses — the kind that made her look like she'd rather be anywhere fancier than here.

"Taka." Her voice was flat and sharp at the same time. "What are you doing."

It wasn't a question.

Takumi's glasses slid down his nose. "Mizuki — hey. This is Mio. We've been friends since—"

"I know who she is," Mizuki said, not looking at Mio. "We're leaving."

"But she's not done."

Mizuki grabbed Takumi's green sleeve and pulled.

Mio's scissors stopped mid-cut. She didn't say a word. She just looked at the small clump of brown hair still caught in her fingers — and quietly closed her hand around it.