Chapter 3: Walking Into the Lion’s Den

After my cousin left, I glanced in the mirror. I really did need a haircut. My hair was starting to curl over my ears—my mom would’ve given me grief if she saw me. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Following the address he gave me, I spotted the salon from a block away. It looked just like he described—flashy sign, gaudy posters, the whole nine yards. It stuck out on the block like a sore thumb.

It was obvious they were desperate for business. You could hear them before you saw them.

A couple of employees in matching polos were out front like carnival barkers. At least two or three of them called out to every passerby.

They were relentless—"Special today! Best deal in town!"—but nobody was biting. Regulars just kept their heads down, hurried past.

You could almost see the invisible wall around that place. Folks knew better. Or maybe they’d already been burned.

When it was my turn, a bleach-blond guy grinned at me. He had that used car salesman smile—too many teeth, not enough warmth. I could smell his cologne from three feet away.

“Hey man, need a cut? We’ve got a crazy deal.” He sounded like he’d rehearsed that line a hundred times that morning. I played along, just to see where it would go.

“We’re running a special today—fifteen bucks for a wash, cut, and blow-dry. Tomorrow it’s back to regular price.” He shoved a glossy flyer in my hand, like he was handing me a golden ticket. I pretended to read it, even though I already knew the game.

I stopped and took the flyer he handed me. He leaned in, dropping his voice like he was letting me in on a secret.

The guy looked hopeful. He was practically bouncing on his toes. I could tell he was hungry for a sale.

“Dude, you’ve got a great look, just need to tidy up that hair. Get a cut, freshen up, and you’ll be turning heads.” He winked, like he was my wingman instead of a stranger on the sidewalk. I almost laughed.

I asked, “Really just fifteen?” I made my voice skeptical, just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t.

“Would I lie to you?” He grinned wider. If his teeth were any whiter, I’d need sunglasses.

“Wash, cut, and blow-dry, only fifteen. Guaranteed satisfaction, or your money back.” He even clapped me on the shoulder, like we were old pals. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

I didn’t ask any more questions. Just followed him inside.

I figured the less I said, the more they’d show their hand. I wanted to see the whole performance.

As soon as I stepped in, all the staff shouted, “Welcome!” Everyone was way too enthusiastic. It was like walking onto a game show.

All smiles, all at once—like they’d been waiting just for me.

Surprisingly, there were quite a few customers inside—almost every chair was full.

But looking closer, some of them didn’t seem like real customers. A couple just sipped water, scrolled their phones, glancing up every so often. Maybe they were plants, maybe not.

After the standard greeting, the stylists went back to their clients. The cheer faded as quickly as it had come.

I felt the tension behind the smiles.

Someone called out, “Taylor, take the new customer for a wash.” You could tell Taylor was the go-to for fresh meat.

She glided over, all poise and practiced charm.

A girl in a crisp white blouse and a fitted black skirt walked over with a sweet smile. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she wore just enough makeup to look approachable.

Up close, her eyes sparkled, but I could see the calculation behind them.

“Hey, I’m Taylor. Let’s get your hair washed first. Right this way.” She gestured toward the row of sinks with a little flourish, like she was inviting me to a five-star spa.

Her voice was soft and sweet. I felt a little embarrassed—my hair was pretty grimy that day.

I hadn’t washed it in a couple days—too many late nights at the shop. I almost apologized, but caught myself.

She didn’t seem to mind. She even tossed me a compliment: “Wow, your hair’s in great shape. You must use some good shampoo.”

She ran her fingers through my hair with practiced ease, all smiles. It was almost disarming.

I just said, “Uh, thanks.” I shrugged, trying to play it cool. No sense letting her know I was onto her.

She said it like she was doing me a favor. I could hear the pitch coming a mile away.

I knew every step was part of their routine. If you looked annoyed and said ‘no,’ she’d back off.

They’re good at reading people. The moment you show resistance, they switch tactics. But I wanted to see how far they’d go.

But I’m not most folks. If you want to catch a big fish, you have to play along.

I decided to let her reel me in, just to see the whole show. Sometimes you have to let the con run its course to catch the con artist.

I said, “Sure, why not.” I flashed a lazy grin, like I was just there for a good time.

Taylor perked up. “We’ve got three kinds: the basic’s free, the mid-range is eighteen, and the premium is twenty-five.” She listed them off like a waitress reciting dessert specials. I could almost see the dollar signs in her eyes.

I pretended to be annoyed. “Why do I have to pay extra?” I furrowed my brow, trying to sound just irritated enough to make her work for it.

She explained, “The price covers the shampoo and a scalp massage, deep cleaning—it’s worth it. You’ll feel amazing after.” She leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. The whole act was so smooth I almost wanted to clap.

“For someone as busy as you, most people pick the premium.” She smiled, like she knew she had me. Flattery goes a long way in these places.

With that kind of talk, how could I refuse?

I shrugged, pretending to give in. "Alright, use the best. Just do a good job!" Whether the shampoo costs extra is a test—they’re figuring out if you’re a big spender. They can tell right away.

I watched her eyes flick to the other staff, like she was sending a signal. I knew I’d just been tagged as an easy mark.

After washing my hair, Taylor gave a thumbs-up to some staff across the room. It was subtle, but I caught it. The game was on.

I guess I’d been marked as a “cash cow.” I could almost hear the cash register ringing in her head.

She had me wait in the lounge, poured me a cup of water, and told me to wait for the stylist. The water was ice cold, served in a fancy glass. I sipped it slowly, keeping my eyes open.

While I waited, I pretended to be on a call, secretly recording a video of the price list on the wall. I angled my phone just right, making sure to get every detail. You never know what’ll come in handy later.

At that moment, Taylor came back. She moved fast, always smiling. I wondered if her cheeks ever hurt from all that grinning.

“What level of stylist would you like?” She said it like she was offering me a choice of luxury cars. I knew where this was going.

Here we go again—another upsell. I braced myself for round two.

I looked confused. “I have to choose? I just want the fifteen-dollar deal.” I furrowed my brow, playing dumb. Sometimes that’s the best way to get people talking.

She said, “Let me explain. Fifteen’s for a junior stylist. We also have senior and master stylists—their skills are different. The master’s the best.” She gestured toward the back, where a couple of stylists were chatting. I could see the pecking order just by the way they stood.

I rolled my eyes. “And the prices are different too, right?” I couldn’t help the sarcasm slipping into my voice. She just smiled wider.

“You’re sharp. Senior’s forty, master’s sixty-five.” She said it like it was a bargain, like I was getting a deal just by being there.

“You’ve got a great vibe, really. Letting a junior stylist cut your hair would be a waste. Spend a little more, get a sharp look, feel good, maybe even make more money, right?” She winked, nudging my arm. I played along, but inside I was rolling my eyes.

I hesitated. “Master’s too much. Is senior really that good?” I pretended to think it over, like I was weighing my options. She bit her lip, eyes bright.

Her eyes lit up. “Absolutely! I’ll get you the best one.” She hurried off, looking satisfied. I could tell she thought she’d scored.

I nodded, and she went to arrange it. I watched her whisper to the guy in the back. He looked over at me, sizing me up.

Soon, a stylish guy came up behind me, all smiles. He wore skinny jeans and a shirt with way too many buttons undone. His cologne was even stronger than the guy outside.

“Hey, I’m Chris, your senior stylist. I’ll take care of you.” He flashed a practiced grin, the kind that’s supposed to put you at ease. I just nodded, playing it cool.

I just nodded, not caring much. I wanted to see how far he’d push the upsell. I kept my answers short, just to keep him talking.

Whatever title they gave him, it was just shop talk. I didn’t care.

They could call him the "Hair Wizard" for all I cared. I was just there for the show.

Most folks who pay extra at this point are women who love a bit of pampering. I glanced around—sure enough, the biggest spenders were women with perfect nails and designer bags.

I can’t believe my cousin fell for this. But I had to remind myself—not everyone grew up learning to watch their back. Not everyone’s as cynical as me.

I asked my cousin about it, and he said he just couldn’t say no. He said the pressure was too much, and he didn’t want to look cheap. I get it. They know how to push your buttons.

Chris chatted as he cut, sometimes praising my hair, but saying a few gray hairs ruined the overall look. He ran his fingers through my hair, making little tsk-tsk noises. "Man, you’d look even younger if we took care of those grays."

Sometimes he called me a successful guy, someone he admired. He even asked what I did for a living, nodding along like he really cared. I kept my answers vague.

I knew the real trick was coming now. I braced myself, waiting for the next pitch. These guys never stop at just one upsell.

This round of awkward flattery made me uncomfortable, so I just answered with “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t miss a beat, just kept piling on the compliments.

As we talked, he switched to talking about gray hair and skincare. He leaned in, voice low, like we were sharing secrets. "You know, most guys your age don’t take care of their skin."

He said he could get rid of my gray hairs in one go—just twenty-five bucks. He made it sound like a miracle cure, like I’d walk out a new man.

Of course, there was another round of flattery. He told me I had a strong jawline, good bone structure, all that nonsense. I just nodded, barely listening.

But I knew I didn’t have much gray hair, so I just refused. I shook my head, told him I liked the salt-and-pepper look. He laughed, but didn’t push too hard.

Chris didn’t mind, and smoothly moved on to skincare. He was a pro—never missed a beat. "What about your skin, though? Oily, right? I can help with that."

He said, “Man, your skin’s pretty good, but maybe you’re too busy to take care of it. It’s a bit oily.” He pointed at my forehead, making a face like he’d discovered a problem only he could fix.

“Since you’re here, why not get a facial? Treat yourself.” He made it sound like a reward for surviving the week. I had to admit, I was curious just to see what they’d try next.

I asked, “How much for one session?” I kept my tone casual, but inside I was already tallying up the bill.

Chris pointed to the price list on the wall. He made a show of walking me over, like he was showing off a menu at a fancy restaurant.

“See, our prices are all there. Different packages, different prices. Pick the best value.” He tapped the laminated sheet, eyebrows raised. I pretended to study it, even though I’d already recorded it.

I’d already recorded the price list, so now I took a closer look. I zoomed in with my phone, making sure to get every detail. You never know when you’ll need proof.

The facial packages were $60, $110, and $150. Each one had a catchy name—"Glow Up," "Total Refresh," "Celebrity Treatment." I tried not to laugh.

Each package had different products and extras—cleansing and moisturizing, oil removal, massage and detox, all kinds of stuff I’d never heard of.

The descriptions were full of fancy words—"purifying serum," "nano-mist technology." I doubted half of it was real.

The more expensive, the more you got. But I knew it was all just window dressing. The real money was in the extras.

To Chris, I was already a cash cow ready for milking. He wasn’t letting me go. He kept glancing at the manager, like they were waiting for me to bite.

He kept pushing, laying it on thick with flattery and sales talk. He told me I’d look ten years younger, that my girlfriend (if I had one) would be thrilled. I almost snorted.

No wonder people love being complimented—it works. For a split second, I felt a little taller. Then I remembered why I was there.

In the end, with the manager’s help, I picked the $110 facial package. The manager swooped in, all smiles, and convinced me it was the "best value." I played along, just to see what they’d try next.

Surrounded by sharp-dressed guys and pretty women, I was led into a private facial room. The room was dimly lit, with soft music playing. It smelled faintly of lavender and something chemical.

During the treatment, I got the VIP treatment. They tucked me into a plush chair, draped a warm towel over my face, and dimmed the lights. It was almost relaxing—almost.

Nicole, the facial girl, had gentle hands, a sweet smile, and soft words full of praise. She asked if I was comfortable, called me “sir” every other sentence, and complimented my skin like she was reading from a script.

Her hands moved gently, patting my face, neck, and shoulders—it felt amazing. For a second, I almost forgot where I was. She really did have a magic touch.

For a moment, my throat tightened and my mind went blank. I let myself relax, just a little. Maybe that was their plan all along.

So when she offered to remove my blackheads and pimples, I agreed without thinking. She made it sound like a favor, like she was going above and beyond just for me. I nodded, barely listening.

Now I understood why my cousin couldn’t keep his wallet closed. It’s easy to lose track when someone’s pampering you and telling you how great you are. I get it now.

Nicole gently reminded me, “Just so you know, removing blackheads and pimples costs extra—blackheads are $12 each, pimples $18.” She said it so casually, like it was no big deal. I felt a little jolt of suspicion, but I played along.

Even though I was dazed, I wasn’t out of my mind. I sat up a little, trying to clear my head. No way was I letting them run up the bill without a fight.

I double-checked: “Removing blackheads is just $12 each, pimples $18 each, right?” I made her repeat it, just to be sure. She nodded, all innocence.

“All together, I won’t spend more than $200, right?” I made her promise. She smiled, hand on her heart.

“Right, right, you’re good. Removing blackheads doesn’t hurt, you can even take a nap.” She even offered to bring me a blanket. I almost laughed.

“When you wake up, you’ll look amazing.” She sounded so sincere, I almost believed her.

Like I’d dare fall asleep—I just closed my eyes to rest. I kept one ear open, just in case. I wasn’t about to let my guard down completely.

Nicole kept working on my nose and face. She hummed a little tune, making it all seem so routine. I counted the seconds, trying to stay alert.

After a long time, everything was finally done. It felt like hours. My face tingled, and I was more than ready to get out of there.