DWC Short Story: The Fringe Benefits of Bad Decisions

The beginning of this disaster was, and I cannot stress this enough, not my fault.

People always say, “Well, why did you go to a place called Scissor Me Baby?” like I should have known. Hindsight is very bold. In the moment, it was a 60% off Groupon, within walking distance, with a free “revitalising scalp ritual,” which I assumed meant “five minutes of nice head rub,” and not “being aggressively coconut-oiled by a woman called Crystal while Enya plays at gunpoint.”

All I wanted was a trim.

Not a restyle.
Not a rebrand.
Not a personality reset done with thinning shears.

“Something fresh but not drastic,” I said to Crystal.

What I meant: take off the dead ends, make me look alive, keep me recognisably myself.

What she heard: set me free from the burden of dignity.

Crystal had that energy of someone who says “babe” every third word and means it as both affection and threat. Her own hair was shaved on one side, long on the other, and neon lilac. You know when you look at someone and think, “You’ve dated at least one DJ”? That was Crystal.

“Oooh, babe, you’d really suit a fringe,” she said, already sectioning off my hair like we’d agreed.

“I don’t think—” I began.

It’s important to note that I am not weak. I have boundaries. I’ve sent food back before. I’ve told a man I didn’t want to see him again to his actual face. But there is something about sitting in a salon chair, wearing that nylon cape, glasses taken away, hair wet, vision blurred, that takes 80% of your backbone and washes it straight down the basin.

By the time I found my voice again, she’d already done it. She spun me to the mirror with a flourish like a magician revealing the dove.

Except the dove was dead.

Silence.

Then: “Well,” I said.

And then, because my mouth goes feral in crisis, I added, “Fun.”

Let me paint the scene for you. The fringe — and I use “fringe” in the loosest legal sense — sat an aggressive two inches above my eyebrows. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t wispy. It was a horizontal line. I looked like I’d been drawn. It gave the impression that perhaps I was fourteen, but had seen things.

The rest of my hair… you know how toddlers cut wrapping paper with those safety scissors? That. One side brushed my shoulder. The other side stopped in a place no haircut has ever naturally stopped. The back had “texture,” which is what Crystal called it. I would have called it “crime scene.”

“It’ll settle,” she said, patting it.

“It’s standing,” I said.

“It’ll relax in a day or two.”

“Will I?”

She laughed, like we were having fun.

Then she rubbed two pumps of something labelled “shine milk” into my head until I looked damp, paid herself her own suggested tip on the little iPad, and said, “You’re gonna get so many compliments, babe, you won’t know what to do.”

I knew exactly what to do. I was going to die in a bin behind Tesco.

But here’s the part the universe thought would be funny: this was not a quiet, no-witnesses week. This was The Week. The Week of Events. The Week in which my social life, which is usually half crisps, half Netflix, decided to act booked and busy.

We had:
Thursday – department presentation at work.
Friday – first date with Tom, off the apps.
Saturday – cousin Leanne’s wedding.
Sunday – Harvest Thanksgiving service at my mum’s church (non-negotiable, apparently the Lord needed to see me in person).

And now I had Panic Bangs.

Day One: The Office Apocalypse
Thursday morning I woke up, looked in the mirror and made a sound I don’t think humans usually make unless they’ve been lightly stabbed.

It had not “settled.”

In fact, it had developed volume.

The fringe had curled overnight in a way I did not consent to. Not soft curls. No. It had curled under, into a perfect semi-circular shelf. A ledge. A balcony for my eyebrows. A hood for my thoughts.

I tried everything. Straighteners. Water. More water. Clips. My iron (don’t judge me). At one point I lay flat on my back and pressed my fringe to my forehead with both palms like I was CPR-ing it.

Nothing.

And I had to present at 10:00.

I work in marketing which, despite what LinkedIn says, is mostly: “Please convince the client this very boring thing is exciting.” I had to pitch campaign copy to three managers and a client who once used the phrase “thought leadership” without laughing.

I arrived at work with my fringe pinned back and the rest twisted into something I told myself read “messy bun,” even though if we’re honest it read “woman who lost a fight with a ceiling fan.” I bolted straight to my best friend at work, Jess.

Jess took one look and grabbed my shoulders.

“Oh babe.”

“Don’t you ‘oh babe’ me.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Blink twice if you’re lying.”

She blinked four times.

We went into a meeting room so I could emotionally fall apart in private.

Now. There’s a woman in Finance called Priya. I barely know her. We’ve spoken maybe twice, both times about printer toner. She happened to walk past the glass door, did a cartoon double-take, then came in without knocking like there’d been a workplace incident.

“What happened,” she whispered, already sympathetic.

“The sixties,” I said. “Apparently I live there now.”

Priya, bless her, did not laugh. She did, however, start rummaging in her handbag with purpose. Out came: a compact mirror, two hair grips, a mini hair wax, and — I’m not making this up — emergency hairspray.

“Why do you have all that?” I asked.

“I have a fringe,” she said simply. “We walk prepared.”

Between Jess holding my head still and Priya sculpting like she was restoring a national monument, we got it to… tolerable. The shelf fringe became more of a slanted swoop. A bit French art student. A bit “I write poetry in stairwells and smell faintly of tobacco.”

Then, at 10:00, I went in to do my presentation.

Now. You know when you’re self-conscious, and you think everyone is looking at the Thing, and you’re trying to act like there is No Thing?

Slide one: “Q4 Brand Messaging Proposal.”

Me: “So, what we’re suggesting is a softer—”

Client Man, interrupting, frowning in concentration: “Have you… have you done something new with your hair?”

There was a beat of silence that stretched across time.

I smiled with all my teeth and said, “Yes. It’s intentional. Please never ask again,” and immediately clicked to slide two.

We did, somehow, land the pitch. I don’t know if it was my “synergy narrative” or if they were too afraid to say no to the woman radiating unhinged fringe energy, but we got approval. Jess said I’d been “very commanding.” I think they just didn’t want me coming back.

Day Two: The Date
So. Tom.

Tom and I had matched on Thursday the week before, back when I still had hair that obeyed the laws of kindness. We’d messaged every day since. He used punctuation. He asked follow-up questions. He didn’t open with “hey sexy ;)” or “u up” or “wyd tonight ;)” like a bored pigeon. He had the vibe of a functioning adult. Rare.

We were meant to meet Friday night at an Italian place in town. Casual. Not too loud. Good lighting — which, under ordinary conditions, would have felt flattering. Under current conditions, lighting was my enemy.

At 18:00 I put on a black dress that I always wear on first dates because it does something promising with my waist. Then I faced the hair.

It had grown somehow worse in 24 hours. The left side sat at my collarbone. The right side hovered around my jaw like it had other plans. The fringe had now entered a phase I can only describe as “eager toddler with safety scissors.”

Text from Jess: SEND HAIR.

I sent a photo.

Jess replied with just: “oh wow.”

I typed: “I’m cancelling.”

Before she could reply, I got another text — from Mum.

MUM: Are you still going out with that man from the internet?
ME: Yes.
MUM: Send me his number plate.
ME: I don’t have his number plate, I’m not hijacking him at gunpoint in a car park, it’s pasta.

I sighed. I couldn’t cancel. Not after a full week of messaging. Not after telling Mum. Not after shaving my legs in October.

So I went.

The restaurant lighting was, as feared, brutal. Full overhead. Every angle revealed. Tom was already there at the table and he stood when I arrived, which I found very endearing and also rude because then I had to remove my coat and release The Hair into the wild.

He smiled when he saw me. Then his eyes did flick upwards, just a tiny glance, like, “Oh. Okay. That’s happening.” But to his credit, he didn’t say a word.

We sat. We ordered. We did small talk. I tried to angle my head in a way that suggested I was mysterious and not just hiding unblended layers.

Then the waiter came.

Now, this part I need to explain. I do not have a deep voice. My voice is normal. Feminine. Fine. But I also, due to nerves, tend to start sentences with a sort of polite “Hi…” which sometimes comes out croaky.

The waiter, poor man, arrived and said, “And what can I get for you, sir?” while looking right at me.

Sir.

Tom went bright pink and made a noise like a deflating balloon. I could feel my own soul leave my body, get in a taxi, and go home.

The waiter froze. “Oh God. Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’m— oh no. I’ve done it again.”

Again?

He panicked and tried to fix it, which of course made it worse. “Ma’am. Miss. Lady. Madam. Woman. Girl. Human woman. You’re beautiful. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t leave a review.”

At this point I was laughing so hard I had tears in my fringe, which made the fringe separate into little damp clumps, which honestly did not help with the “human woman” case.

Tom started laughing too, and just like that, the tension fell out of the room. We spent most of the meal telling our worst humiliation stories. He told me about the time he waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him, panicked, and then pretended to be swatting a fly that didn’t exist in front of thirty people. I told him about Year 9 Sports Day when I fell over in the 100m, slid on the gravel, and skidded past the finish line like a penguin on its stomach.

We shared tiramisu. He didn’t try anything creepy at the table. He walked me to my bus stop and said, “Can I see you again? Unless you’re going into witness protection because of the fringe. Which I would understand.”

And here’s the thing: I believed him. Not in a “we’re getting married, this will be told in the speeches” way, but in a “you saw me at my worst and still want to know more” way. Which is rarer than cheekbones.

Day Three: The Wedding
Leanne, my cousin, is the sort of person who has a “colour palette” for her wedding. You couldn’t just “wear something nice.” You had to wear “mocha, champagne, eucalyptus or soft blush,” which, I’m sorry, are paint samples not clothes.

I went in a cream jumpsuit that I told her was “champagne-stone” and prayed no one spilt gravy on me.

The hair situation for the wedding was handled by force. I decided I was wearing a hat. That’s it. British law. If the Royals can do it, so can I.

I went into Accessorize and bought a fascinator on a headband, reduced because one of the fake flowers had fallen off. It was pale pink and sat slightly to the side, like a satellite dish searching for signal. My plan was simple: cover the fringe, pin the long side back, pretend the short side was ‘intentional French bob.’

At the church, Aunt Caroline saw me, clutched her chest and said, “Oh darling, how Paris.” Which in Aunt Caroline language means, “You look chaotic but I support women.”

Then, mid-photos, disaster struck.

We’d all been herded into the garden for the “candid laughter” pictures no one enjoys. The wind picked up. Not gentle breeze. Proper British wind with attitude. My fascinator lifted, wobbled, and then — in front of the photographer, the groom’s mother, and God — it took flight.

Not just off. Off and away. It flew across the vicar’s little herb patch, skimmed the pond, and landed in the vol-au-vents.

There was a gasp, then a silence, then Leanne shouted, “GET IT, IT’S RENTED.”

So there I am, in cream, sprinting across damp grass, fringe exploding in the wind like the crest of an anxious cockatoo, leaping toward the canapé table while old relatives cheer like it’s the Grand National.

I will say this for the fringe: it photographs with commitment. Every candid shot from that moment looks like I’m fronting a very intense indie band.

Later at the reception, I met several new characters:

– Gary, the groom’s work mate, who had three pints and decided to tell me “you’d actually be a worldie if you grew that out a bit.” Thank you, Gary, noted, into the sea you go.

– Bev, the groom’s aunt, who leaned in, stage-whispered “I had one like that in ’84, love, don’t worry, it’ll pass,” handed me a safety pin from her bra, and became my spiritual guide.

– And a five-year-old called Maisie, who stared at me for a long time, then asked, in full volume, “Why is your hair short and long?”

I said, “Fashion.”

She nodded, very serious. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Confidence restored.

Day Four: Sunday Service
Now we reach Sunday. Harvest Thanksgiving. My mother had already told half the congregation I was “back for the weekend,” which means you can’t skip or she’ll get phone calls asking if I’ve “fallen away,” like I’m a missing Victorian child.

The problem here is my mother is 67, has firm views about presentation, and still thinks I have “that nice hair, you know, from last Christmas.” She had not yet seen The Fringe.

I considered a hat again. But last time I wore a hat to her church, an usher asked me to take it off because apparently it “blocked the projector.” So I did what any reasonable adult woman does before seeing her mother: I tried to style the problem into submission.

YouTube: “How to fix a bad fringe fast.”
Suggested video woman: flawless, glossy, fringe like silk curtains. Of course she did. Of course.

My actual result: somewhere between “French girl who reads Simone de Beauvoir in cafés” and “backup tambourine player in a Fleetwood Mac tribute band.”

I walked into church with what I hoped was confidence and what probably looked like concussion.

Mum turned, saw me, and her face did a full journey. Shock. Concern. Effort to hide it. Failure to hide it.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, darling.”

“I know,” I said.

“Are you… all right?”

“It’s not a cry for help, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She leaned in, lowered her voice and said, “Is this… is this about something? Are you going through… something?”

Like I’d shaved my head and joined a commune.

Before I could answer, here came Mrs Patel, who runs the tea rota and knows every scandal within a five-mile radius.

“My girl!” she cried, hugging me. “Beautiful! Look at you! So modern. I love it. Very Vogue.”

Reader. I nearly wept.

Then she said, “Do you want samosas to take home?” and I did actually weep.

After the service, Mum and I stayed for tea in paper cups and Rich Tea biscuits, and somehow — in between hymns, biscuits, and people saying “You look just like your mother” (rude to both of us) — I realised something.

By this point, we are four days in. Four public appearances. Four rounds of humiliation, improv, and wind. I have been stared at, misgendered, nearly de-hatted by God, and asked if I’m making a statement. And yet. I’m still here. I haven’t combusted. No one has died. I got through a work pitch. I went on a date. I rescued a fascinator from a tray of vol-au-vents like a hero. I collected samosas.

And more than that: people had been… kind.

Okay, some of them were chaotic about it, but still: kind.

Priya with her emergency fringe kit.
Jess, blinking supportively like a hostage.
Tom, who saw the worst and still said, “Can I see you again?”
Bev with the bra safety pin.
Maisie, CEO of Truth.
Mrs Patel, provider of samosas and emotional stability.

It hit me that the haircut had done something I hadn’t managed on purpose: it dropped the performance. I couldn’t hide behind “I look fine, don’t look at me too hard.” I had to walk into rooms already ridiculous, and then just… be. Hair as icebreaker. Hair as social experiment. Hair as exposure therapy.

Which is how, on Sunday night, I ended up in my bathroom, looking in the mirror at this fringe — this stubborn, lopsided, defiant fringe — and said, out loud, “All right then. We’re doing this.”

Because here is the final twist.

By Sunday evening, it had grown on me.

Not literally. Hair doesn’t grow that fast, despite what Crystal claimed when I rang the salon on Saturday morning and opened with, “You’ve ruined my life, please advise.”

But emotionally. It had grown on me emotionally.

It framed my face in a way I wasn’t used to. It made my eyes look bigger. It gave me a bit of chaotic energy I didn’t hate. It said, “This woman has stories.” It said, “This woman has seen things and will tell you about them over chips.” It said, “This woman may turn up to your wedding reception and sprint through a herb garden in cream trousers, so be ready.”

On Monday, back at work, I caught Priya in the kitchen.

“How’s it going, babe?” she asked, sipping tea.

I flicked the fringe, which is something I can do now. “Honestly? I think I’ve entered my Villain Era.”

She nodded, impressed. “There she is.”

Jess walked in and said, “Tom texted. He asked how your Sunday was and also, and I quote, ‘What is your fringe’s stance on Thai food?’ So I think you’re in.”

Reader, I grinned.

Because yes. I had a terrible haircut.

But I also had a second date. And samosas. And a new level of not caring that felt, strangely, like freedom.

And if that’s not character development, I don’t know what is.