The First Haircut Horror Show
Little Tommy had never been to the barber before. His mom said, “It’s just a haircut, nothing to be scared of.” But as soon as he stepped inside the old barbershop, Tommy froze.
The overhead light buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. A single barber’s chair sat in the middle, looking less like a place for grooming and more like an electric chair ready to deliver justice. On the walls, sharp scissors glistened in neat rows like surgical tools. The clippers gave off a low, menacing hum, like a hungry robot waiting to bite.
In Tommy’s wide-eyed imagination, the friendly barber wasn’t smiling—he was a mad scientist. His white apron became a blood-stained lab coat, and the comb in his hand transformed into a gleaming torture device. The spray bottle? Clearly filled with truth serum.
The striped barber pole spinning outside the window suddenly looked like a warning siren, spiraling red and white, saying: Abandon hope, all ye with messy bangs!
Tommy shuffled forward, picturing a dungeon hidden beneath the floorboards where kids who squirmed too much were banished, doomed to spend eternity sweeping up hair clippings. He sat in the chair, stiff as a statue, gripping the armrests like a prisoner strapped down.
Then the barber clicked the clippers on.
BZZZZZZZZZZ!
Tommy’s imagination screamed: Chainsaw! Chainsaw! Chainsaw! He flinched so hard the barber had to steady his head. His mom tried not to laugh, whispering, “Relax, it’s just a trim.”
But to Tommy, every snip of the scissors was like a guillotine falling. Every lock of hair that drifted to the floor was a piece of his very soul being cut away.
Finally, after what felt like hours in the torture chamber, the barber spun him around to face the mirror. Tommy blinked. The monster scientist was gone, and in his place stood a friendly old man with kind eyes. His reflection showed a neat little haircut, not a single scar or missing ear.
The terror faded. For a moment.
Then Tommy thought: If Mom brings me back here again, I’m bringing a helmet.
