The salon was calm in the way salons usually are on a quiet weekday afternoon. Soft music floated through the air, hair dryers hummed in the background, and the scent of shampoo and hairspray blended into that familiar, oddly comforting smell. Clients sat in oversized chairs, scrolling through their phones or staring at their reflections with cautious hope. It was supposed to be just another ordinary appointment.
For Mia, it was meant to be a simple trim. Nothing dramatic. No big changes. Just a tidy refresh before the weekend. She had said it clearly when she walked in, smiling politely. “Just a little off the ends,” she told her stylist, Lena, who nodded confidently.
“No problem at all,” Lena replied, snapping on her gloves. “Relax. You’re in good hands.”
Everything was going perfectly. The cape was secured. The chair reclined slightly. The first snip of scissors sounded reassuring—controlled, professional, precise. Mia closed her eyes, finally relaxing as Lena worked methodically, section by section.
Then came the moment.
It started innocently enough. Lena reached for the spray bottle to lightly mist Mia’s hair. But instead of a gentle mist, the nozzle jammed—and then released all at once. A sudden, aggressive stream of water shot forward like a tiny fire hose.
Straight. Into. Mia’s face.
Time seemed to freeze for half a second.
Mia gasped, sputtering as cold water soaked her forehead, eyelashes, and nose. “Oh—OH!” she shouted, blinking furiously.
Lena froze, eyes wide. “I—oh my gosh—I’m so sorry!”
But it was already too late. The moment had crossed the point of recovery.
The client in the chair next to them snorted, trying—and failing—to suppress laughter. A stylist across the room paused mid-blow-dry, mouth open in disbelief. Someone near the reception desk let out a sharp laugh that echoed through the salon like a starter pistol.
Mia wiped her face with the edge of the cape, then looked up at Lena. Her hair was dripping. Her mascara had smudged slightly. For one long second, everyone waited—bracing for embarrassment, annoyance, maybe even anger.
Instead, Mia burst out laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a small laugh. A full, uncontrollable, shoulders-shaking laugh that made it impossible not to join in.
“Oh wow,” she managed between laughs. “I asked for a trim, not a car wash!”
The salon exploded.
Lena doubled over, laughing so hard she had to lean against the counter. “I swear—it’s never done that before!” she said, tears forming in her eyes.
The receptionist chimed in. “That spray bottle has beef with customers today!”
Even the blow-dryer started up again, its operator laughing so hard she had to stop and catch her breath. Phones came out. Someone muttered, “This is going on my group chat immediately.”
Mia tried to regain composure, but every time she looked at Lena’s horrified-yet-hysterical expression, she lost it again. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I came in stressed, and now I’m crying—but for completely different reasons.”
Lena grabbed a towel and gently dabbed Mia’s face, still laughing. “Free facial included. No extra charge.”
What made it even funnier was the timing. Just as things started to settle, the faulty spray bottle slipped from the counter, hit the floor, and—somehow—sprayed water straight up like a miniature fountain.
That was it.
The entire salon lost control. Stylists leaned against mirrors. Clients clutched their stomachs. One woman laughed so hard she had to sit down before she fell over.
