I (25F) used to be happy enough. I never would’ve thought something like this could happen to me and that it would all start with a haircut. I want to make it clear upfront that this isn’t a story about a woman’s power living in her hair or whatever. It’s not about temptation or vanity or any of that stuff we’ve all heard before. To be honest with you, I don’t know what it’s about…
All I know is that I’m afraid.
***
I’ve always been one of those girls who is slightly obsessive about her hair. Sure, skincare is important, and I have my routine, but I’ve always been a “hair-first” girl. My skin has always been volatile, often the victim of hormones and other whims of nature. My hair, on the other hand, is a constant. All I mean is that if I take decent care of it, if I get regular trims if I color it consistently and responsibly, and if I stick to my simple upkeep routine (shampoo, leave-in conditioner), it pretty much always looks good.
That’s why, when I first moved to a small town after taking a new job, one of the top things on my to-do list was to find a good stylist. I asked my coworkers for recommendations — most of them were middle-aged men, but I figured their wives and daughters had to get their hair done somewhere. Sadly, the recommendations they came back to me with were chains, the kinds of places with fluorescent lights and big signs in the windows that read ALL CUTS $14.99.
I wasn’t that desperate yet, as I’d just had my hair done before I left the city. Still, I wanted to plan ahead. So I looked online, read reviews, scrolled and scrolled. Nowhere looked promising.After a couple of days, I gave up. I put it out of my mind for the time being. I had other things to do. A new job to learn. A cute little rental house to decorate. A whole new life to begin.
***
This is how it really started: a few months before, I got a job offer I couldn’t refuse. The only downside was that the company, a family-owned business that had done exceptionally well, was located in the middle of nowhere.
I’d grown up in the suburbs, and I had gone to college and then worked in a city. I was used to the amenities and conveniences of more populated areas, and I wasn’t looking forward to scaling down my social life. But I had been unemployed for three months, and I’d just gone through a break-up. I figured moving would be a fresh start and that the cost of living would be very low. On top of that, my ex-boyfriend had accused me of being “codependent” with my parents, and I sadly realized that he was right. I wasn’t financially dependent on them (at least until I became unemployed), but I still brought my laundry over there every week and ate dinner with them more nights than not, so yeah. I loved my parents, but some space might do me good. Grow up, fly the nest, all of that.
Anyway, long story short, I figured I’d put in a few good years, maybe save some money and pay off my student loans, learn to be a proper adult, and then move back to civilization with some great professional experience under my belt, as well as a nice little nest egg.That was the plan. That is not how it worked out.
***
A month in, I thought things were going well. I was adjusting to the pace of a small town. Work kept me busy in the day, and I didn’t find the evenings and weekends quite as lonely as I’d thought. I got a library card and started reading more, I caught up on some Netflix shows I’d been meaning to watch, and I even found a cute little dive bar / restaurant where I went out for dinner and drinks a couple of nights a week.
But by two months in, I could no longer ignore my hair. The ends were splitting. The layers in the front were starting to grow out in an unflattering way. I needed some help, and quickly at that.
I began to think of maybe asking for a Friday off, booking a flight back home. I could get my hair done, see my parents, quickly catch up with friends, be back to work by Monday morning.
I knew it’d be a step backward in terms of my “growing up” plan, but I can’t tell you how tempted I was…
So when I saw her in the supermarket, it felt like fate. A reminder from the universe to stay strong. This girl was around my age with similarly long hair. And she had the most beautiful balayage I’d ever seen. I didn’t hesitate. I beelined right up to her, told her I loved it, asked her where she’d gotten it done.
She smiled, tossed a lock over her shoulder, clearly proud. “Oh, thank you, I just got it done yesterday. It’s this woman, here—” She whipped out her phone, showed me a contact. “Her name’s Melissa. She’s amazing.”
I typed the name and number into my own phone. “Thank you so much. Seriously, I’ve been looking for someone ever since I moved here. You’re a lifesaver.”
The girl was still smiling, clearly buzzing from the compliment. “You’ll love her. See you around.”
I hurried around the supermarket, finished the rest of my shopping in record time. I threw the bags into the trunk of my car, and then got into my front seat, pulled out my phone, and called Melissa.
She answered after one ring. She told me that she was currently between salons, and that she only did home visits. I told her that was fine, and I explained the sort of color and cut I wanted. We set up an appointment for later that week.
***
Melissa arrived exactly on time, pulled up in front of my house in a red Mustang convertible. Through the window, I watched her get out. She was in her 30s and tall and lanky, with long pink hair. She was heavily tattooed, and as she got closer, I noticed that she wore purple contacts. She was stunning. She didn’t look like someone who’d live in this kind of town.
As soon as I opened the door, there was an instant familiarity between us. In addition to being gorgeous, she was easy to talk to, funny, quick-witted. She got my jokes, and I couldn’t help but laugh at all of hers. She set up shop in my kitchen, and the appointment flew by. I told her all about how I’d moved here to take this job and how I was still finding my rhythm, and how I missed home but was forcing myself to finish out at least a whole year before making any big decisions. I yammered on and on, telling her about my parents and my ex-boyfriend and my career plans and…
Fortunately, she was an excellent listener, but I realized with horror as she was finishing up with the curling iron that I had hardly asked her a single question about herself. This was unlike me—I was usually a very good conversationalist, very aware of the need for a balanced back-and-forth.
When I told her this, she just laughed it off, “Don’t apologize, girl. Hair is therapy.”
I smiled, still a little embarrassed but definitely comforted by her words. She held up a mirror so I could see her finished work, and I let out a little gasp.I
I looked incredible.
It was hands down the best cut and color I’d ever had.
Melissa asked if she could take a few photos on her phone. Probably for her Instagram or something—my stylist at home always posted her best work on her social media. Good advertising and all that. I nodded. “Yeah, of course.”
She stepped around me, capturing my hair from various angles.
“Gorgeous,” she said, still snapping away. “The color really suits you.”
She took a final photo, then held her phone up, flicking through the images. A slight smile on her face as she admired her work.
***
I helped her carry everything back out to her car, tipped her generously, and told her I’d call her in six weeks to set another appointment—she didn’t do pre-bookings, preferring to take her weeks as they came.
“Thanks again,” I said through the rolled-down window. “Oh, and can you send me your Instagram?” I really wanted to see the pictures she had taken.
“Sorry,” she said as she put the car into drive. “I’m not on social media.”
Before I had the chance to ask if she could just send the pictures directly to me, she was gone.
***
Over the next week, I got so many compliments on my new hair that I lost count. I ended up handing Melissa’s number out to five or six other girls, all of whom approached me and practically begged for it. I was glad I could help Melissa out, as she was so talented, but I was also a little worried that if she became really popular, I might not be able to get an appointment anymore.
It turns out that would be the least of my worries.
***
A week later, the trouble began.
I was sitting at my desk at work when my phone started buzzing. A call from an unknown number. I hit ignore, figured whoever it was could leave a message. I went back to my spreadsheet.
But then my phone started buzzing again.
Ignore.
Again.
Ignore.
Again.
Enough.
I grabbed it and hurried out to the parking lot to answer. “Hello?”
Silence on the other end.
I sighed, ready to hang up, but then: breathing.
“Hello?” I said again. “Can you hear me?”
More breathing, rattly, like someone with a bad chest cold.
A cough. A snort.
And then the line went dead.
I hung up, shook my head, marched back inside.
I started getting these calls every day. For whatever reason, I couldn’t block the number. I guess because it was an unknown caller. I started leaving my phone on do not disturb instead, turning it back to normal mode only a few times a day to catch up on messages. It felt weird, like I was being socially isolated. Like I had been put in time out.
In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t tell anyone (aka my parents) about the calls. At the time, I didn’t want to sound like a baby or a scaredy cat. But after my mom voiced her concern about my unresponsiveness (she was used to me messaging her frequently throughout the day—we loved sharing memes and funny little things that had happened to us), I decided it was time to get a new number.
Even then, the calls didn’t stop.
***
As you can imagine, I was getting more and more freaked out by being alone in my house. It was the nonstop phone calls, yes, but it was also a strange tingly feeling. Like I was being watched. Of course, I knew this was nuts. Just in case, I kept my blinds shut.
Getting more uncomfortable with being home alone in the evenings, I started having all of my dinners at the dive bar restaurant.
One Tuesday, I was digging into my usual Caesar salad when I felt— well, imagine sitting on a barstool, minding your business, and then hearing, sensing, feeling someone running up, full-speed, behind you.
I spun around.
Dropped my fork on the floor, startled.
Behind me, a man, short but stocky with a shiny shaved head and a leather jacket. He stopped, inches away. We locked eyes. I instantly noticed that his were purple.
Before I knew what was happening, his stubby fingers were in my hair, combing through it, stroking it. He didn’t say anything. His touch was tender, not at all rough.
Still, I screamed.
Everyone in the bar turned to look.
The next few moments were a blur. The bartender, a kind middle-aged man I’d gotten to know well over the past couple months, rushed out from behind the bar, grabbed the guy. A busboy hustled over to help him. Together, they pulled the guy away from me, restrained him, escorted him outside.
***
After the fact, I couldn’t stop shaking. The bartender brought me around to the back office, where the owner gave me a blanket and a cup of hot tea. I appreciated their efforts, their willingness to protect me. But at the same time, I was a little annoyed that they’d just tossed him out and hadn’t called the police. When I suggested it, they were all kind of glib. “A guy touched your hair. It’s creepy, but it’s not exactly a crime…”
***
It might not have been a crime, I get that. But it was something. I mean, first the phone calls, now this?
When I got home that night, I called the police myself. To my surprise, they listened and took me seriously and sent someone over.
The first thing the female officer asked me was if I had gotten my hair done by a woman named Melissa and if she’d taken my picture.
My eyes widened.
For some reason, it had never occurred to me that Melissa could be involved. Even when I noticed the guy’s purple eyes, I didn’t connect the two. I just thought that I, like a lot of young women, had somehow attracted a stalker.
But no. The officer explained that she suspected that Melissa was a kind of recruiter or pimp and that she was giving our pictures and home addresses, among other personal details, to someone else with sinister motives. She wasn’t sure if Melissa was a willing part of this or if she was a victim too. Either way, Melissa had been linked to a number of similar cases, and apparently the FBI was soon to get involved in the whole thing. In the meantime, all of the local police departments were on high alert, hoping to arrest Melissa, but so far, she’d evaded them.
As I took this in, a wave of nausea hit me. I couldn’t believe how dumb I’d been. I had trusted a total stranger to come into my home, take pictures of me.
And worst of all, I had given out her number to other girls. I was complicit. I was part of this now too.
Of course, I tried to tell myself, people did this kind of thing all the time. Trusted others. So maybe I wasn’t dumb. Maybe I was just unlucky.
Still, there was no way I could tell my parents about this. I was too embarrassed. Too ashamed. I had tried to start a new, grown-up, independent life, and I had already screwed it up in a major way.
Midway through our conversation, the police officer’s phone began buzzing. She looked down at it and then back up at me. “They arrested him.”
I shook my head, not sure what she meant.
“The man from the bar. My colleagues picked him up, wandering around a few blocks away. They think he was on his way over here.”
I exhaled, and oddly, my hands started shaking again, just like they had at the bar. Relief flooded my body, and it was only now that I felt the overwhelming urge to cry.
The officer kindly took my hand, squeezed it. “One down, however many more to go.”
My shaking stopped. I jerked my hand away. “Sorry, what do you mean?”
She smiled sadly. Like she pitied me. “Unfortunately, there are a lot of these guys.”
I exhaled. “You mean perverts and creeps in general?”
“No,” she said. “Well, yes. But I mean, specifically, these purple-eyed men. We don’t know what this is yet. Who they are, I mean. If it’s a cult or a kink ring, if it’s some sort of internet dark web thing… But we will get to the bottom of it. I promise you that.”
Shortly thereafter, she left, told me to take care of myself, to call her immediately if I experienced anything else.
That night, I slept with all the lights on.
Or at least, I tried to sleep.
***
Over the next week, the police officer ended up becoming my new best friend. Not really. But we were in incredibly frequent contact because the weirdness did not stop.
The calls kept coming.
And every time I went out to the grocery store or to get dinner, I would see one of the men. Always at a bit of a distance, never close enough to confront. Always watching me.
I started getting strange emails as well. To both my personal and work inboxes. Complete gibberish, sent from ProtonMail accounts. I only opened a couple. After that, I began deleting immediately. But more and more emails flooded in. So many that I had to ask the IT guy to set up a new work account for me. I had about two hours of peace before emails started flooding into that account too.
As you can imagine, all of this was driving me slowly insane. More and more I was thinking about just giving up and moving back home.
It pains me to say it now, but it was only my pride that stopped me.
***
And then this is when shit got really real.
I saw it on our town’s Facebook page first. A description of a missing woman, a plea posted by her family. Last seen two days earlier. I knew who it was immediately, but still, I scrolled through the written details to look at the picture. My breath caught in my throat.
It was the girl from the supermarket. The one with the beautiful balayage who’d given me Melissa’s number.
I instantly called my police friend, who told me she was already working with the family on the case. She said that these guys had escalated (obviously). She was worried for me, but due to the urgent nature of the missing person investigation, her small department didn’t have the resources to send someone to sit outside my house that night. “But hey, listen, if you hear so much as a creak in the night, you call me right away, okay?”
I told her I would.
***
Another night with the lights on. Another night of no sleep.
Finally, around 3 a.m., I decided to take matters into my own hands.
It was the simplest solution, and yet, for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me before this moment. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to my police friend either.
I grabbed some scissors from the kitchen, charged into the bathroom, and started hacking away. When I’d chopped off enough, I dug out some clippers—a remnant from my ex-boyfriend—to finish the job.
I looked in the mirror at a person who felt unfamiliar to me. I’d always been the girl with long hair, and now I looked like GI Jane or Sinéad O’Connor in that one video. But it didn’t matter. I knew that my life was more important than some hair, which I could grow back in time.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t mourn. I just felt numb.
I stuffed all of the hair into a plastic grocery bag, tied it up, and threw it as hard as I could out the front door. It landed on the driveway.
If one of those creeps wanted it, he could have it.
Finally, around 5 a.m., with all the lights on and dawn beginning to break outside, I fell asleep.
***
My alarm blared at its normal seven-thirty. The first thing I did after getting up was peek out the blinds.
The bag of hair was gone.
***
I whistled as I got ready for work. I hadn’t felt this free in weeks. My nightmare was over.
***
I got a lot of strange looks at work. But in the end, most of the guys said they liked it. That it made me look tough. That they admired my bravery. Not that I really cared what they thought. They had no idea about the extent of what I’d been going through—some of them knew about the emails, but they all seemed to think it was just a technical glitch or something. I guess that was how the baffled IT guy had explained it away.
After I finished my day, which was very productive thanks to not spending it deleting weird emails, I tried giving my police friend a call. I needed to tell her about the bag of hair. And I also wanted her to let the other victims know that they could do the same—shave it off, stop the creeps from coming for them.
I tried her again and again, but there was no answer. I dismissed this as nothing. She was probably swamped with work. The balayage girl was still missing, and there was lots of speculation in Facebook comments about where she could be. Mentions of her ex-boyfriends and old high school feuds and even potential serial killers. No one seemed to suspect that it had started with a haircut. Interestingly, the police were keeping quiet—no mentions of any specific leads in the local news. I guessed maybe the FBI had told them to keep their mouths shut??
***
Anyway, I figured I could try calling again later. In the meantime, I stopped by the grocery store. I needed to pick up a few things.
A small town late afternoon, a totally quiet parking lot.
But as I walked from my car to the doors, I had that tingly sensation. Like someone was watching me.
But that was impossible, right? I already gave them what they wanted. I was free.
Apparently not.
I whipped around and immediately spotted one of the bald, purple-eyed men, standing square in the middle of an empty parking space.
And then movement caught my attention from the other direction—another one.
And another one near the shopping carts and another one standing between two sports cars and another one by the soda vending machines. All virtually identical.I stopped in my tracks.
But no.
I couldn’t just stand there.
I forced myself back into action. Beelined back towards my car. Got in. Grappled for my keys. Started the engine.
More movement.
The men running, full speed, towards my car.
I threw my car into reverse.
A meaty thud as one of them flew up on top of my car, and then a crash as his body shattered my windshield. Like spiderwebs. Still, the glass didn’t collapse. The body rolled down the hood and onto the pavement.
More of them, lunging towards my car. A fist punching through the driver’s side window, a bloody hand trying to grab me.
Believe me when I tell you that I drove like I’ve never driven before. Peeled out of the parking lot, leaving behind carnage unknown.
I drove and I drove and I drove.
***
Four hours later, I was at the nearest major airport. I wasn’t even sure if you could still buy tickets at the airport, but I’m here to confirm you can.
I gave up. I give up. I don’t care about my stuff or my job or being a grown-up.
I just want this to stop.
I just want to go home.
***
I’m writing this post on the plane. On my phone, so forgive me if there are any typos. It feels good to get it all out. And maybe someone else knows what’s happening? I tried calling my police friend again from the airport, but she still wasn’t picking up. I guess maybe if the FBI have finally taken over, she might’ve been bumped off the case?? I don’t know. You’d think she would still answer her phone. There’s a dark part of me that thinks something might’ve happened to her. But I’m trying to remain optimistic…
EDITED TO ADD: Okay, so I got a rental car, and I just pulled up outside my parents’ house. I didn’t tell them I was coming. I was going to wait to tell them everything in person. I didn’t want them to worry about me.
But I’m freaked out all over again now because their front door is wide open?? It’s midnight here. I’ve called the cops, but it’s late and I’m sure there are all sorts of crazy crimes going on, and the dispatcher says it’ll probably be twenty minutes until anyone can come.
I don’t know what to do. My heart is beating a million beats a minute. I can’t just sit out here waiting until then. I need to know if my mom and dad are okay. I feel like I’m gonna be sick. I don’t know, you guys. I’m obviously gonna go in. I just wanted to add this before I do in case… something happens?? I don’t know. So there will be some digital paper trail, I guess?
Anyway. Phone going back in pocket now. Wish me luck.