When I nod, she begins to brush my hair, her hands moving with a gentleness that surprises me. The bristles glide through my strands, soothing my frazzled nerves. But then she pauses. I watch in the mirror as her fingers brush the bald spots at the base of my skull.
Our eyes meet in the reflection, and my heart skips a beat.
Fuck. I forgot.
Anxiety bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. My shoulders tense, rising slightly as if to shield me from the impending confrontation.
To my immense relief, she simply picks up the scissors and says in a soft, reassuring tone, “I’ll only cut the dead ends and then show you how to style your hair. Cutting more of these beautiful strands would be criminal.”
I relax, but then my mother steps closer, her eyes critical as she examines my reflection.
“You’re sure? I think a bob would suit her face shape,” she says, her voice filled with that familiar, insistent edge.
The stylist meets my mother’s gaze without flinching. “I’m sure. The bob wouldn’t fit her elegant neck,” she replies confidently, her tone leaving no room for argument.
My mother narrows her eyes but then nods slowly. “You’re probably right.”
Miranda, who has been silently observing, decides to weigh in. “Daniel likes women with long hair.”
As if his opinion is the final word on the matter.
I feel a pang of frustration, my hands clenching in my lap.
“Fine,” Mother agrees, this time more firmly, finally stepping back.
“Thank you,” I mouth to the stylist.
This could have turned out very differently if she’d decided to tattle on me. But she just gives me a short nod.
She continues to work, and the tension slowly ebbs from my body. Her skilled hands move deftly, snipping away only what’s necessary off the ends of my dry hair. She then guides me through the process of styling my hair and applying makeup, introducing me to products I’ve never used before. It’s far more extensive than my usual routine of moisturizer and mascara, but she keeps it light and elegant. I don’t feel like a painted doll or a clown, just like an enhanced version of myself.
When she’s finished, I stand and, without thinking, pull her into a hug—something I would have never done before Seattle. The little gasp I hear from Mother only makes me hold her longer.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She returns the embrace. Her voice is gentle in my ear as she murmurs, “Hang in there.”
I don’t have a choice.
“I’ll just tidy up the room,” the stylist says and gets to work, putting all her stuff back into two suitcases before she, my mother, and Miranda leave the room, closing the door without saying so much as a goodbye, their conversation fading as they move down the hall.
I catch myself in the mirror—I’m wearing a mask of pristine makeup and glossy hair, but underneath, I feel the same hollow emptiness I once knew all too well.
My hands tremble as I reach up to my head. My fingers graze the base of my skull and skim over the uneven patches of hair. I should have hidden them better, but there was no time. No time to be anything other than what they wanted me to be.
I pull at my hair, the roots giving way to my frantic need for comfort.
My AR project, which should’ve been the highlight of my career,gone.
Tug.
My empty apartment, the loss of its safety.
Tug.
The betrayal.Theirbetrayal.
Each tug sends a jolt through my system, a sharp, physical sensation that does nothing to distract me from the chaotic storm swirling in my mind. I’ve allowed myself to be yanked back into this world. Just as I yank at the strands of my hair, making no move to stop this charade of perfection.
