Scissor Seven -2018-2018 -

“Look,” Seven said, gulping. “I cut hair for the living. And occasionally stab people for money. But ghosts? That’s above my pay grade.”

Seven, perched on the barber chair with his white rooster suit unzipped to his chest, was sharpening a pair of rusty scissors. “Wrong, Dai Bo! A haircut solves everything. Hot? Cut it short. Broke? Cut your own bangs—free therapy.”

“Boss, it’s the off-season! No one wants a haircut when it’s this hot, and no one has the money to hire an assassin.”

“I’ve been walking around with this hair,” she continued, “because in the photo for my funeral, my mother said I looked ‘a mess.’ I promised her I’d get it styled before the New Year. But the New Year came. And went. And now I’m stuck.” Scissor Seven -2018-2018

Dai Bo stared. “No, boss. But you just gave a ghost a haircut. I think that means you’re officially a real barber now.”

The haircut took three hours. Seven couldn’t feel her hair—it was like cutting fog. But he listened. She told him about her favorite noodle shop (closed in 2019, but she didn’t know that yet). Her cat, Mochi (still alive, waiting by her old apartment window). The boy she had a crush on in high school (he became a baker, named his first sourdough after her).

“Thank you, Scissor Seven,” she whispered. “Look,” Seven said, gulping

“It’s all I have,” she said. “Please. I just want to look nice for my mother’s memory.”

This special was produced in 2018, then lost in a scissor-sharpening accident. It has never been re-aired.

Seven gave her a modern bob—clean, sharp, with soft layers framing her face. “There,” he said, stepping back. “You look like you’re about to take over a boardroom. Or a haunting. Same energy.” But ghosts

Seven grinned, flicked his scissors open, and stepped out into the July sun. “Good. Because this season—I’m gonna cut so much hair. And maybe a few villains. We’ll see.”

The island of Chicken was sweating. It was late June 2018, and the neon sign above "Seven’s Barber Shop & Assassin Agency" flickered between “OPEN” and “BROKE.” Dai Bo was fanning himself with a wanted poster, grumbling.

The woman pushed her hair aside. Her face was pale, peaceful, but her eyes were two dark wells. “I died in 2017. December 31st, 11:59 PM. A car accident. I was laughing at a text message. I never saw the headlights.”

Seven glanced. The calendar was stuck on a page from 2018—but the month was crossed out. Underneath, in smudged ink, someone had written: “The week between years. The dead get haircuts.”