Bearing the Bad Cut

The day of the Summer Padel Championship, Jordan woke up, looked in the mirror, and wanted to disappear.

His hair. Oh god, his hair.

Yesterday's experimental DIY trim had turned into a hack job. One side was noticeably shorter than the other, like his scissors had slipped mid-snip. Which they had. The back was somehow simultaneously both choppy AND thin, like a severely constipated beaver had attacked him with a dull blade.

Which was why Jordan was currently wearing his dad's ancient fishing hat indoors. Like a weirdo.

"You're wearing that to the tournament?" Maya asked, leaning against his doorframe. She'd already Applied Her Face – full foundation, the winged eyeliner she'd practiced all summer, and lip gloss that smelled like strawberry artificial everything. "Seriously?"

"It's fine," Jordan mumbled, yanking the brim lower. "It's my vibe now."

"Your vibe is I'm emotionally bearing the weight of my terrible haircut?" She raised an eyebrow. "Bold choice."

"Can it, Maya." He shoved past her. "Not everyone can justwake up like THAT and be fine."

She followed him down the stairs. "Jordan. Literally no one cares about your hair except you. The guys are gonna be talking about padel strategy. The girls are going to be checking each other out. You're the only one thinking about your hair."

Easy for her to say. Maya's hair always looked perfect, even when she'd just woken up. His was, well. Whatever this was.

The tennis courts were already buzzing when they arrived. Jordan's stomach did that familiar teenage thing where it felt simultaneously hollow and like it might eject its contents onto the nearest innocent bystander.

"There he is!" Derek called from the padel court, waving his racket. "About time, man! We're up in ten!"

Jordan kept the hat jammed down as he stepped onto the court. The brim blocked his peripheral vision, which was honestly fine because he didn't want to see people looking at him anyway.

"Dude," Derek whispered as they stretched. "What's with the hat? It's like ninety degrees."

"Sun protection," Jordan said stiffly. "Skin cancer is real."

"Inside?"

"Reflected UV rays. Off the glass wall. It's a thing."

Derek stared at him, then shrugged. "Your head, your choices. Just don't let it distract you – we need to crush the Williams sisters today."

The first game was a disaster. Jordan couldn't track the ball properly with his stupid hat. He missed two easy volleys, shanked a backhand into the net, and tripped over his own feet chasing a drop shot.

"You good?" Derek asked during the changeover.

"Fine," Jordan snapped, sweat already soaking through his hat's band. "Just warming up."

"Right." Derek didn't look convinced.

The second game somehow went worse. Jordan's hat kept sliding forward, blocking his vision at crucial moments. He could feel people watching – could practically sense the whispers circulating among the spectators. Could feel the heat crawling up his neck that had nothing to do with the temperature.

And then, with the score at 5-4, game point for the other team, Jordan's hat finally betrayed him completely.

A high lob came his way – a ball he should've easily put away. But as he stepped back to position himself, his hat slipped down over his eyes. By the time he frantically pushed it up, the ball had already bounced untouched.

"Point!" the referee called.

Jordan stood there, hat askew, staring at the spot where the ball had landed. His whole face burned. Behind him, he heard someone snicker.

"That's it," he muttered, ripping off the hat and throwing it toward the bench.

His hair was terrible. Everyone would see. They'd laugh. They'd –

"FINALLY," Derek groaned. "Dude, I was literally about to tackle you and take it off myself. You've been playing like garbage because you can't see anything."

Jordan blinked. "What?"

"Your hair?" Derek made a so-so gesture. "Yeah, it's not great. But you playing blind? That's worse." He jerked his chin toward the net. "We've still got this. Play like you actually want to win."

From the sidelines, Maya caught his eye and gave him a tiny thumbs-up.

Jordan exhaled. His hair was still terrible. It was still uneven and weird and definitely not what he'd wanted. But Derek was right – nobody was pointing and laughing. Nobody cared. They were too busy watching the game.

He adjusted his footing, raised his racket, and got ready for the next serve.

His hair was a disaster.

But he didn't have to bear it alone.

And they still had a championship to win.