Chapter 4: The $2,000 Haircut Trap

They finally let go of me, the cash cow, and led me to the checkout counter in a little cubicle. I walked out blinking, trying to shake off the haze. The checkout area was tucked away, probably so nobody could hear the arguments.

At checkout, I was floored. I stared at the number on the screen, thinking I’d misread it.

“Sir, your total is $2,135.” She said it so calmly, like it was the price of a cup of coffee.

“We’ll round it down—just $2,100.” She smiled like she was doing me a favor. My jaw dropped.

The checkout girl smiled as she handed me the bill. She slid it across the counter, all business now. I felt my blood start to boil.

My cousin got fleeced for over three grand—looks like they didn’t cut as deep with me. Still, two grand is two grand. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to yell.

I glared at her, furious. “Are you kidding me? How could I have spent that much?” My voice echoed in the little cubicle. She didn’t even blink.

At this point, the masks were off—no need to pretend. The friendliness vanished. She was all ice now.

The girl calmly put away her smile. “Sir, it’s correct. All voluntary spending. You can check the bill.” She slid the itemized list over to me, tapping it with her pen.

I grabbed the bill. My hands shook a little as I scanned the charges. It was all there, line by line.

Every item was listed—on the surface, it all looked fine. But the totals didn’t add up. Something was off.

But when I saw the charges for blackheads and pimples, I was truly stunned. I counted the numbers twice, just to be sure. Ninety-five blackheads? Fifty-eight pimples? Give me a break.

Their shamelessness was on a whole new level. I almost laughed out loud. It was so brazen, it was almost impressive.

It showed: blackheads, $12 each, 95 removed, total $1,140. I touched my nose, which was a little sore, but there’s no way it held that many blackheads. Maybe if I’d never washed my face in my life.

Come on, my nose is that small—how could I have ninety-five blackheads? I looked in the mirror on the counter, just to double-check. Nope, still the same old nose.

For pimples: $18 each, 58 removed, total $1,044. I barely get pimples, even after a week of junk food. Fifty-eight was just ridiculous.

That’s even more ridiculous—I know how many pimples I have! I could probably count them on one hand. The math was laughable.

Just these two items added up to over two grand. It was daylight robbery, plain and simple.

This isn’t just overcharging—it’s outright robbery. I took a deep breath, trying not to lose my cool.

Even though I was prepared, I was still furious. Part of me wanted to flip the counter, but I held back. That’s what they want—to make you lose control.

“Seriously? Who charges for blackheads and pimples by the piece?” I said it loud enough for the whole shop to hear. A couple of staff glanced over, but quickly looked away.

The checkout girl acted surprised, as if I should’ve known: “Sir, we charge by the piece. It’s all clearly marked—there’s a price list on the wall.” She pointed to a tiny sticker I hadn’t noticed before. It looked freshly stuck on.

I shouted, “That’s ridiculous! I checked the price list—it only said blackheads $12, pimples $18. If it said per piece, would I have agreed?” My voice cracked with anger. She didn’t flinch.

She giggled. “Look closely at the price list—we wrote it, $12 is just the unit price.” She tapped the sticker again, like that made it all okay.

I looked where she pointed, and only then did I notice new stickers on the price list: blackheads, $12 per piece; pimples, $18 per piece. The corners were still curling up—must’ve been slapped on just before I came in.

The girl pulled out a thick, fancy binder labeled ‘Price Book.’ It looked official, like something you’d see at a bank. I flipped through it, jaw clenched.

Inside, every service was priced, with photos—very official-looking. There were even little diagrams showing where each “zone” was on your head. I almost laughed.

Blackheads and pimples were clearly marked as per-piece. Big, bold letters. No room for confusion—if you were looking for it.

Not only that, removing gray hair was charged per strand. They even had a chart for it, with photos of little tweezed hairs. It was absurd.

Some high-end dye jobs were even charged by ‘zone’—a head divided into five, eight, or ten zones. They’d turned the human scalp into a grid system, like they were mapping a city.

Really eye-opening. I snapped a few photos, just in case. I figured I’d need all the evidence I could get.

Now I understood—this book is only shown when there’s a dispute or when the authorities come. It was all for show, a smokescreen for anyone who asked questions.

Yep, all clearly marked prices. They’d covered their tracks, just enough to stay out of trouble.

If you pay, they call it voluntary. That’s how they get away with it, every single time.

I angrily tossed the book back to her. It hit the counter with a thud. She didn’t even blink.

“This is robbery! I asked Nicole, and she said blackheads and pimples only cost that much.” I could feel my voice shaking with rage. The staff behind her just watched, bored.

The checkout girl calmly spoke into her headset: “Nicole, Nicole, come to the counter.” She pressed a little button, eyes never leaving mine. I crossed my arms, waiting.

Nicole came over smiling, as if she had no idea what was going on. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I almost admired her nerve.

“What’s wrong? Sir, were you unhappy with my service?” She batted her eyelashes, all innocence. I gritted my teeth.

The checkout girl said, “The customer says you didn’t make the blackhead and pimple charges clear.” She said it in a bored monotone, like she’d said it a hundred times before.

Nicole smiled. “Sir, I explained everything. You asked the price, and I confirmed it with you.” She even put a hand on my arm, like she was comforting me.

“You didn’t say it was per piece! And do I even have that many blackheads and pimples?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but I could feel my face getting hot.

“Sir, it’s all clearly marked. The default is per piece—I thought you knew.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“As for the number, you were asleep, so you didn’t know. I counted them one by one—even got the ones that hadn’t come out yet.” She smiled sweetly, like she’d done me a favor. My hands clenched into fists.

What a move. Unbelievable! I almost laughed. It was so brazen, it was almost impressive.

At this point, I knew arguing was pointless. They had an answer for everything. I needed a new plan.

“You’re scamming people. I’m not paying that much.” I tried to sound firm, but I could see the staff closing in.

The checkout girl got nasty. Her smile vanished. She leaned in, voice cold.

“Oh, sir, she pulled them one by one for you—two whole hours, with pus and blood. So gross. And now you want to skip the bill?” She wrinkled her nose, like she was disgusted. I wanted to throw something.

Before I could reply, the manager came over, looking all serious. He strode over, hands in his pockets, face set in a practiced frown.

“Taylor, what’s going on?” He glanced at me, sizing me up. I met his gaze, unflinching.

“Why are you arguing at checkout? The customer is our ‘guest’—be polite.” He said the word "guest" like it was a joke. The staff snickered behind their hands.

The checkout girl pointed at me and rolled her eyes. She muttered something under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. I ignored her.

“He spent over two grand voluntarily, won’t pay, wants to skip out.” She made it sound like I was trying to rob them. I almost laughed.

I said angrily, “You’re scamming people, overcharging.” My voice echoed in the little room. The manager just smiled.

The manager played nice. “Sir, don’t worry, let me take a look.” He took the bill, flipping through it like he cared. I could see right through him.

He took the bill, pretended to look at it for a few seconds, then calmly said, “No problem, just charge as normal.” He handed it back, all business. I rolled my eyes.

Yeah, right. Like he needs to say that. The whole thing was a performance, and I was the only one who didn’t know my lines.

“I’m not paying.” I crossed my arms, digging in my heels.

The manager didn’t flinch. “Sir, did you get your hair washed, cut, and blow-dried?” He ticked off each service on his fingers, like he was keeping score.

“Did you get a facial?” He leaned in, eyebrows raised. I nodded, jaw clenched.

I said, “Yes, but I’ll only pay what’s reasonable.” He smirked, like he’d heard it all before.

He asked again, “Did you get your blackheads and pimples removed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew he had me cornered.

Before I could answer, he quickly said, “Good, you didn’t deny it, so you must have. No one forced you—you spent voluntarily, so you have to pay.” He spread his hands, like it was all out of his control. I wanted to punch something.

I sneered, “I’ll only pay what’s fair.” He just shrugged, unfazed.

The manager got tough. “You have to pay this—our prices are clearly marked.” He pointed at the price list, daring me to argue.

I pointed at the price list. “Your price list is a problem—those per-piece stickers were just added.” I jabbed my finger at the curling corners. He just laughed.

He laughed. “Impossible, sir, you’re seeing things.” He put on his best "trust me" face. I wasn’t buying it.

“Hurry up and pay. Don’t waste our time.” He leaned in, voice low. The threat was clear.

“No way. I’m reporting you.” I pulled out my phone, pretending to dial. He didn’t even blink.

As soon as I finished, four or five male staff closed in around me. They moved fast, blocking the exits. I felt my heart race, but I kept my face calm.

Just like my cousin described. I could see the fear in his eyes now, even though he wasn’t there. I understood how he’d felt.

At this moment, they looked like a pack of wolves guarding their kill, all glaring at me. Their faces were hard, jaws clenched. I knew I couldn’t take them all, not in a fair fight or otherwise.

You can’t beat a gang head-on, so I had to play it smart to get out of there. I took a deep breath, forced myself to relax. No sudden moves.

After a few seconds of standoff, I gave in. I let my shoulders sag, pretending to give up. Sometimes you have to lose a battle to win the war.

“This is way too much. Can you cut me a deal?” I tried to sound defeated, like I was ready to bargain.

The manager smiled, and the guys backed off. He raised his hands, signaling the others to relax. The tension eased, just a little.

“Of course. We have a deal—if you buy a $3,000 pre-paid card, you get half off.” He said it like he was offering me a golden ticket. I almost laughed.

“But I suggest you go for $4,000—that’s the best deal. You get ninety percent off.” He winked, like we were in on a secret together. I nodded, playing along.

“Taylor, do the math for our friend.” He waved her over. She grabbed a calculator, tapping away with a flourish.

Taylor put on her professional smile. She looked like she was about to sell me a timeshare.

“Sir, if you pre-pay $4,000, you get ninety percent off.” She showed me the numbers, all neat and tidy.

“That means today you only spent a little over $200, and you still have nearly four grand left on your card.” She made it sound like I’d just won the lottery. I forced a smile.

“You can come anytime, and your family and friends can use it too—just give your phone number.” She winked, like she was letting me in on a secret. I nodded, biting my tongue.

Brilliant! I had to admit, it was clever. They’d covered every angle.

No wonder the cops can’t do anything—pre-paying is just a business model. It’s all above board, at least on paper. The real scam is in the details.

They can claim you used all these services and they only charged you a couple hundred—not even fleecing you. It’s the perfect con—just enough to stay legal, just shady enough to ruin your day.

How can anyone punish them? That’s the trick. They make it look like you’re getting a deal, but really, you’re just getting played.

At this point, most people would just pay to get out first and figure things out later. I saw it in the eyes of the other customers—some of them looked as shell-shocked as I felt.

That’s what my cousin did, and now I could only do the same. I gritted my teeth, handed over my card, and signed the slip. I promised myself it wouldn’t end here.

At my insistence, they gave me the bill and payment receipt. I tucked them into my jacket, snapping photos for good measure. Evidence is everything.

These tricks must work all the time—they’re that confident. They barely glanced at me as I left. Just another mark, another payday.