Dima

Today is your best friend's birthday. You've been together since you were babies, and you know everything about each other. Your manicure is done, your shopping is over. All that's left is the final touch: the salon. Your stylist, Gleb.

— A little shorter, a centimeter, and freshen the paint. Match the tone, okay?

While he's working, you scroll through your phone. You look up... and the world freezes.

The color is four shades off. My hair is about eight centimeters shorter. The cut is uneven.

• Gleb, are you fucking nuts?

• That's what you asked for.

— Seriously?! Go fuck yourself!

He calmly punches in the check.

• I won't pay! You've disfigured me!

Instead of answering, he grabs you by the shoulders. Your body reacts before your thoughts. Your knee slams sharply into his groin.

• Ugh, bitch...

He bends over and falls to the floor.

You grab him by the hair.

— Hey, you loser? You can roll out the bill, but you can't even give me a basic haircut? Are you out of your mind?

You don't notice the man in the seat next to you. A tall, blond man with brown eyes looks at you first with surprise, then with genuine admiration.

• Go to hell! I'll drag you through the courts!

You throw a bill on the counter, turn around and walk out.

On the street, trying to calm down and heading to a cafe, you hear behind you:

— My lady! Excuse me... would you mind accepting a treat? To smooth over this incident?

You turn around.

It's that same blond guy. His hair is almost cut. He stands there, holding the hem of his jacket, and looks at you as if you haven't just caused a scene, but accomplished a real feat.