A Town Too Pretty for Its Own Good

Bloomberg was the kind of town where even the pigeons looked well-groomed.

Every street was lined with barbershops and salons, their bright signs gleaming in the afternoon sun. The people of Bloomberg took their hair very seriously. Very, very seriously.

Which made it a terrible place to be Ollie, Remi, Mike, Jacob, Carson, or Jackie.

The six of them sat on the back steps of the school, their hair going absolutely everywhere — wild, tangled, flopping over ears and eyes like overgrown bushes after a rainstorm.

"You've got a leaf in yours," Remi said, squinting at Ollie.

"You've got a bird's nest in yours," Ollie shot back.

Jackie said nothing. She just pushed her long black hair — with its streaks of red — out of her eyes and picked at the skull on her necklace.

Down the street, three barbershop doors swung open at once.

Three Doors and a Lot of Running

Three barber chairs rolled out onto the sidewalk at the same time.

Not carried. Rolled. Like the barbers had planned it.

Three men in crisp white aprons steered them into a row, right in the middle of the street, calm as you please. One had a neat little mustache. One had arms the size of tree trunks. The third one was short but moved fast, and he was already snapping a pair of clippers in the air like he was warming up.

*Click. Click. Click.*

Ollie made a sound that wasn't quite a word.

"Those are clippers," Carson said flatly. "Those are actual clippers."

"I can see that," Mike said through his teeth.

Jackie's bangs were hanging over her eyes and she didn't push them away. She just stared.

The short barber spotted them. He grinned and gave a little wave.

"Oi," Remi whispered. "He's looking right at us."

Ollie grabbed Jacob's sleeve. Jacob grabbed Remi's. Remi grabbed Mike's.

Jackie took one very slow step backward.