The overhead light was harsh and unflattering, and exactly what we needed.
“Alright,” I said, clapping my hands once. “Operation Blue Phoenix: Phase Two.”
Ava sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at herself in the mirror. Her uneven blue patches glowed under the light, wild and wonderful. Her expression, quiet pride, was what finally undid me.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Let’s make this look intentional.”
I wrapped the old towel around her shoulders again and tugged on the gloves. She watched each movement with laser focus, like she was studying spellcraft.
As I worked the dye through her hair in careful sections, Ava stayed so still that for a moment I could pretend she was younger again, those years when she let me brush and braid her hair while she hummed little songs about imaginary ghosts. She’doutgrown braids. And songs. And letting me fuss with her hair. But tonight felt like we’d stepped back into something gentle. Something just ours.
“You’re very good at this,” she said seriously.
I smiled. “Occupational hazard of being a punk kid.”
“What is a punk kid?”
“Oh,” I said, laughing breathlessly. “Someone who thought rules were optional and hair should always be loud.”
Ava considered this deeply. “I think that fits you.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so I just hugged her.
When the timer chimed, I turned her toward the sink and rinsed the dye out. Blue spiraled down the drain like magic draining from a cauldron.
When she lifted her head again, the bathroom lights hit her hair evenly, rich blue, bold, brilliant.
Ava’s eyes widened. She didn’t smile at first. Sheglowed.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
“It really is,” I said, sweeping her damp strands behind her ear. “You look like you could command a dragon army.”
“Or be a necromancer queen,” she said thoughtfully.
“That too.”
She hesitated then, just a beat, before asking, “May I do yours now?”
I froze. Not because I didn’t want to. But because the question pulled something deep and old inside me.
“I . . . yeah,” I said, breath catching. “Yeah, baby. You can.”
Ava nodded, businesslike. “Only streaks. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Grandma.”
We both snorted at the exact same time.
I helped her section my hair, her hands careful but excited. I guided her through how much dye to use, how not to drip it everywhere, what to do even if she did drip it everywhere, and how to angle the brush.
She worked so carefully, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth, that my chest ached. Not with sadness, something else. Something warm and new.
“Okay,” she said finally, stepping back. “You must wait twenty-two minutes.”
“Twenty-two?” I asked. “Not twenty?”
“No. The box says twenty, but I think you deserve extra magic.”
Oh god. My heart.
