There is a salon in Inglewood that seems perpetually frozen in the late seventies. The decor, the clothing of the hairdressers, even the equipment and magazines seem to come to a stop around 1978. If you go there during the day, the able stylists will be able to provide you with a deftly executed (if extremely dated) haircut for a price that is equally as deflated and out of place. However, if you return during the night, the salon’s true area of expertise will become apparent. Entering the shop after sunset, even if you just exited it, will reveal a shocking transformation.

As before, the store will be furnished and appointed as though it were the late seventies, but the decades between then and now will now be visible. Everything is aged and cracked, as if it had been left to the elements. Most shocking of all, the bottles of hair product and comb sanitizer have been replaced with row on row of murky jars containing vague, fleshy shapes. One of the stylists will remain, and she will offer you a shave and a haircut. Refuse the shave, lest you be left faceless.

Instead, ask the stylist to pick something that suits you and sit in one of the chairs. She will cut off your face with a straight razor, but the process will be strangely bloodless and you will feel nothing. Your vision will fade to black for a time, and when it returns one of the faces from the jars will have been seamlessly transplanted. Your features will, in every respect, be identical to whoever the face belonged to before the stylist stole it, and over time your body will change to resemble theirs as well. If you must vanish, this is how you do it. But be warned that you can never get your face back, and the friends and enemies of the face’s owner will mistake you for them forever.