Nike Wiedert

Today is my best friend's birthday. You have to be perfect.

You've been friends since childhood. You know everything about each other. You've already discussed half the world.

We got our nails done, our hair done, and bought a dress. We went to see Gleb.

— Trim it a centimeter. And repaint it to match.

While he was cutting my hair, I was looking at dresses on my phone. I looked up—my hair was eight centimeters shorter, the color was wrong, and the cut was crooked.

“Are you fucking nuts?” you hissed.

“You asked for it,” he said calmly.

"Seriously?!" Your scream cuts through the air, sweeping away any whispers from the corners of the car. "Fuck you!"
He began to count the sum.

"I won't pay! You shaved half my head, and the color—are you blind?!" Your voice breaks, you're on edge.

Gleb grabbed me by the shoulders. You kicked him in the balls.

“Bitch…” he slid to the floor.

You grabbed him by the hair.

— Hey, you loser? Are you completely out of your mind? You can roll out the bill, but you can't even manage a simple haircut? Are you out of your mind?

I didn't notice the man in the next chair looking at you. Blond, brown eyes, almost six feet tall. He looked at me adoringly and smiled.

"Fuck you!" She threw him more money than necessary and left.

I was walking to the cafe when suddenly someone called out to me:

— My lady! May I offer you a treat... to smooth things over?

That same guy. He smiled adoringly.