There was the phase I went through where I'd put streaks of red

Host: The rain was relentless — a steady, shimmering curtain of water that turned the streetlights into blurred streaks of gold and crimson. The city was half-asleep, caught between the rhythm of puddles and the hiss of tires against wet asphalt. Inside a small barbershop, its window fogged by the damp air, two figures lingered long after closing time.

The floor was scattered with strands of hair, glistening faintly like fallen memories. A single lamp burned above the mirror, casting a warm, amber glow over the worn leather chairs and the faint smell of shampoo and rain.

Jack sat in one of the chairs, his coat damp, his expression unreadable. Jeeny stood behind him, her long black hair tied back, holding a comb loosely in one hand. Between them lay a newspaper clipping, slightly smudged from the drizzle — a quote from Ellie Taylor:
“There was the phase I went through where I'd put streaks of red food colouring in my fringe as some kind of budget instant hair dye. Fine until it rained and I looked like I'd had a head injury.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “I love that. The image of it — red streaks running down your face in the rain. There’s something so perfectly human about it.”

Jack: (grinning) “Human? You mean ridiculous. That’s the kind of thing you do when you’re young and stupid. You think it’s rebellion, but it’s just… food coloring and bad weather.”

Host: The rain thudded harder against the window. The sound filled the small shop, like the pulse of some restless memory.

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty of it, Jack. That kind of mistake — that phase — it’s how you learn who you are. The things we do to stand out, to feel seen, even when we end up looking like we’ve been attacked by spaghetti sauce.”

Jack: (snorts) “You romanticize everything. Some people just do stupid things. Not every embarrassing moment is a lesson in self-discovery. Sometimes it’s just… stupid.”

Jeeny: “And yet you remember it, don’t you? That’s the point. We remember our mistakes more than our triumphs. They brand us — not like scars, but like signatures.”

Jack: “Signatures? You mean stains.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, running the comb through his damp hair, her movements unhurried, almost meditative. Her reflection met his in the mirror — calm, amused, and strangely tender.

Jeeny: “A stain is proof that something happened. That you lived. I’d take red food coloring over perfect hair any day. Perfection’s boring.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one who looks like a murder victim after a downpour.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Oh, I’ve had my moments. Once, I tried to bleach my hair in college — with lemon juice and sunlight. I ended up with a patchy yellow halo that looked like a mold experiment. But I loved it, for a while. It was me — raw, trying too hard, and alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, though his voice stayed steady, the tone of someone still fighting an unseen smile.

Jack: “So that’s what you think this quote’s about? Being young and messy?”

Jeeny: “It’s about honesty. About not being afraid of your own ridiculousness. People spend their whole lives polishing themselves, sanding away the awkward bits, hiding the phases they went through. But those phases are the only parts that are real.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those influencers who turn their worst decisions into spiritual growth stories.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t deny it’s true. Every stupid choice — every rain-soaked fringe — is a reminder that we were brave enough to try. That we didn’t wait for life to give us permission to look stupid.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, briefly dimming before returning to its warm glow. The sound of the rain outside seemed to swell in rhythm with their words, as if echoing their heartbeat.

Jack: “You really believe in the value of embarrassment?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Embarrassment is a sign you’ve risked something — your image, your control, your dignity. It means you stepped outside the safe version of yourself. Tell me, Jack — when’s the last time you did something embarrassing?”

Jack: (pauses, smirks) “Talking to you in a barbershop at midnight probably counts.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s just tragic.”

Host: For the first time that night, Jack laughed — a low, warm sound that cut through the cold air. It wasn’t loud, but it lingered. Jeeny smiled, catching his reflection in the mirror, the edges of her own laughter forming like light on water.

Jack: “Alright, I’ll admit — I get it. There’s something… liberating about that kind of imperfection. You do something dumb, the world laughs, and you realize — it doesn’t kill you. Maybe that’s what growing up really is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Learning to laugh with the world instead of hiding from it. That’s what Ellie Taylor was really saying, I think — that we all go through our red-food-coloring phases. We try to reinvent ourselves, and sometimes the rain reminds us who we actually are.”

Jack: “That’s oddly poetic for a hair disaster.”

Jeeny: “It’s life. We dye, we dry, we rinse, we repeat.”

Host: The two of them stood there for a while, neither speaking. The mirror caught their reflections — one sharp, cynical; the other soft, steady. Together they looked like two different versions of the same soul: one that mocked the world to survive, and one that loved it despite everything.

The rain began to slow. Its rhythm softened, turning from a roar to a murmur. Jeeny put down the comb, and Jack rose from the chair, looking at himself in the mirror — at his tired eyes, his faint smirk, his slightly disheveled hair.

Jack: “You ever wish you could go back to those phases? Before you learned how to hide them?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But maybe the trick isn’t going back — it’s finding small ways to keep that version of yourself alive. The fearless, foolish, red-streaked version who didn’t care if it rained.”

Jack: “You think she’s still there?”

Jeeny: “If you listen closely — she laughs every time you make fun of yourself.”

Host: The door creaked open as Jack stepped out into the night. The rain had stopped, but the street still glistened under the flickering lights, alive with reflections of gold and red. Jeeny watched from the doorway as he turned his collar up against the cool air, then glanced back once, his faint smile saying what words didn’t.

Above them, the sign buzzed faintly — “Cuts & Company” — its final letter sputtering in and out, like a half-forgotten joke. The smell of wet earth and faint soap filled the air.

And as the night settled again, the echo of Ellie Taylor’s laughter — that dry, self-aware humor of someone unafraid to look foolish — seemed to linger with them both.

Because in the end, growing up isn’t about avoiding the rain.
It’s about stepping into it — and letting the color run.