ONE
Daisy
The bellabove the front door jingles as my last client leaves for the day, waving cheerfully.
“Thanks again, Daisy!You always work magic.”
If only I could do that on electric bills.
“Anytime,” I call weakly, then sag when the door shuts and the street outside goes quiet.
The silence presses in, too familiar, too heavy.
There are worse places to have a meltdown than inside a hair salon that smells like lavender shampoo and coconut-oil conditioner.At least that’s what I tell myself as I stare at the stack of unpaid bills spread across the front counter of A Cut Above.
My family’s salon.
My legacy.
My impending doom.
The top envelope mocks me with a bright redFINAL NOTICEstamp, as if it’s personally offended that I haven’t magically manifested five thousand dollars out of thin air.I press my palm to my chest and breathe through the ache.
This shop has been in my family since my great-grandma opened it in the fifties.She used to cut hair while gossiping with women in curlers, serving lemonade in mason jars as if it were a social club disguised as a salon.My grandma took over next, then my mom.And now… me.
The last string holding it all together, and right now, that string feels frayed.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket.I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Alexi:Tell me you didn’t forget our ten-minute vent-session.I’ve been looking forward to it all day.
I laughdespite the panic clawing at my insides.Alexi is my best friend and has been since forever.She’s like a sister to me, and we’ve been through thick and thin together.She lives just down the street from me here in Wolf Valley, and we see or talk to each other every single day.
I hit call instead of texting back and smile as her bright voice fills my ear.
“Okay.Scale of one to ten, how dramatic is today’s crisis?”
“Twenty-seven.”I sigh.
“Oof.Burn it down?”
“No, I can’t,” I whisper.“My great-grandma built this place.It still smells like her rose perfume sometimes.”
There’s a pause.I know she hears the wobble in my voice.
“How bad is it?Really,” she says softly.“Tell me.”
I sink into the worn floral chair beside the dryers.
“The house needs repairs,” I say.“The roof leaks when it rains, and the back porch steps are rotting.The shop’s been slow for months.And the bank—” My throat tightens.“They’re threatening foreclosure.On both properties.”
“Shit,” she groans.
“Yeah, I know.I’ve already cut down on spending, increased my hours…”
“You ran that Mother’s Day sale?—”
“I know,” I groan.“I’ve tried everything except selling my organs on the black market.”
