Jordan stood outside the first salon at 2:47 PM, staring at the price list taped to the window. His stomach dropped.
"Men's Color Correction: Starting at $325."
Starting at.
Three hundred and twenty-five dollars.
For hair.
Jordan's bank account currently held two hundred forty-seven dollars. The System's sign-on bonus wouldn't arrive until he completed Ground Zero. Which meant he needed to fix his hair disaster with the money he had right now.
"Next," Jordan muttered, pulling up Google Maps on his phone.
The second salon sat in a trendy part of downtown, all white walls and minimalist decor. A woman with perfectly styled blonde hair looked up from her phone as Jordan walked in.
"Hi, how can we help you today?"
Jordan pointed at his head. "This. I need this fixed."
The woman's smile tightened slightly. Her eyes assessed the damage. The uneven brown dye job that had turned his natural dirty blonde into something resembling mud. The fried texture from too much box dye and not enough conditioner.
"Let me get our colorist."
A man emerged from the back wearing all black, his own hair styled in a perfect fade. He walked around Jordan in a slow circle, occasionally reaching out to touch a strand and wince.
"Box dye?"
"Yeah."
"Multiple applications?"
"...Maybe."
"And you want to go back to your natural color?"
"If possible."
The colorist sucked air through his teeth. "We can do it. Color correction, deep conditioning treatment, cut to remove the most damaged parts. Looking at three sessions minimum to get you back to healthy."
Jordan's palms started sweating. "How much?"
"First session would be four fifty. Then two hundred per follow-up."
Eight hundred and fifty dollars total.
Jordan was already backing toward the door. "Thanks, I'll think about it."
The third salon looked fancy from the outside. Floor to ceiling windows, plants everywhere, the kind of place where they served you champagne while they worked on your hair.
Jordan walked in because Google said they did men's cuts. Maybe they'd have something affordable.
A woman in a crisp white shirt approached him. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, I was just hoping to get a price quote."
"Of course. What service are you looking for?"
Jordan explained the situation. Again. The box dye. The damage. The desperate need to look human again.
The woman nodded along, her expression carefully neutral. "We'd need to do a consultation first. That's complimentary. Then our color correction packages start at five hundred for men."
Five hundred dollars.
Jordan thanked her and left before she could see him laugh. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when your options are either laugh or scream.
He sat on a bench outside the salon and opened Google Maps again. His phone screen showed salon after salon, all with variations of the same sleek aesthetic and presumably the same soul-crushing prices.
"There has to be somewhere," Jordan muttered, zooming out on the map.
His eyes caught on a cluster of businesses about three miles away. The reviews were... mixed. But the photos showed actual people getting their hair cut. Not magazine models. Not influencers. Just regular people who needed regular haircuts.
Jordan clicked on one listing. "Fade Kings Barbershop."
No price listed. Just an address and reviews that said things like "always take care of me" and "best fade in the city."
The location sat in a part of town Jordan's GPS helpfully labeled as "high crime area" with a little warning symbol.
Jordan looked at his timer. Twelve hours, forty-three minutes.
"Fuck it."
The drive took thirty minutes. Jordan watched as the buildings changed from trendy boutiques to liquor stores with bars on the windows. Graffiti covered walls in elaborate murals and tags. Groups of people stood on corners, talking and laughing in the late afternoon sun.
Jordan's Honda Civic felt very white and very out of place.
He found parking on the street and sat in his car for a full minute, staring at the barbershop across the street. The building was painted bright blue with "FADE KINGS" written in gold letters across the front. Through the window he could see barber chairs and people moving around inside.
usic thumped from an open doorway, the bass vibrating in Jordan's chest. The air smelled different here, a mix of grilled meat from a street cart and the faint, sweet scent of cheap perfume.
"You're just getting a haircut," Jordan told himself. "In and out. They cut hair. You need hair cut. This is a normal transaction."
He got out of his car and locked it twice. Then a third time to be sure.
The sidewalk felt different under his feet. Rougher. Cracked in places. Jordan kept his head down and walked toward the barbershop, very aware of his clean white volleyball shirt and gym shorts.
A group of three guys stood outside the barbershop, leaning against the wall. One of them was tall, wearing a white tank top that showed arms covered in tattoos. The other two were shorter but built like they lifted weights for fun.
They looked at Jordan. Then at each other. Then back at Jordan.
His legs felt disconnected from his brain. Every instinct screamed at him to pivot, to walk away, but he forced one foot in front of the other, the cracked sidewalk seeming to stretch on for miles.
Jordan walked up to the door. The three guys stepped forward, forming a loose semicircle that blocked his path.
The tall one spoke first. "Yo."
"Hey," Jordan said. His voice came out higher than normal.
"Who you with, cuz?"
Jordan's brain scrambled. Who was he with? What did that mean? Was that code for something? Should he name drop someone? Did he know anyone to name drop?
"Uh." Jordan swallowed. "No one?"
The three guys exchanged glances. The shorter one on the left cracked his knuckles. The one on the right moved closer, close enough that Jordan could smell cologne and something sweet like candy.
"No one," the tall one repeated, stepping forward.
They surrounded him. Jordan's back pressed against the barbershop window. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought they might crack.
"I just—" Jordan's voice cracked. "I just wanted to fix my hair."
The tall guy leaned in. "Really."
Not a question. A statement loaded with implications Jordan couldn't read.
"Yeah," Jordan said. His hands were shaking. "Really. I know it looks bad, I used box dye like an idiot and now it's fried and every salon wants like five hundred dollars and I'm just—"
"Relax." The tension in the guy's face vanished, replaced by a wide, disarming grin. A deep laugh rumbled in his chest.
"Easy, man. I'm just fucking with you. You came for a cut, right? We can take care of that fried shit you got going on."
Jordan blinked. "What?"
"This is my shop." The guy gestured at the building behind Jordan. "I'm Marcus. These are my boys Dre and Trey. Come on."
Marcus clapped Jordan on the shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways, and opened the door to the barbershop.