Sort. Strip it down. Calls to Brynn. Questions about her brother. Voices in the background. People asking around town.
That’s not pressure after the fact.
That’s build.
The salon always feels softer at the end of the day.
Not quieter, exactly, because there’s still music playing low through the speakers and the hum of the dryers cooling down, but softer in the way everything settles once the rush is over. The mirrors stop reflecting movement, the chairs sit empty instead of spinning, and the smell of hairspray and shampoo hangs in the air without being layered over itself a hundred times.
I sweep the last pile of hair into a neat line near my station, the bristles of the broom whispering across the tile. It’s mostly dark brown with streaks of blonde, which makes me smile because that was Mrs. Hensley’s doing. She came in convinced she wanted something “bold” and left with highlights she kept pretending weren’t exactly what she’d asked for.
“You’re smiling at the floor again,” Tessa calls from across the room, her voice light and teasing.
I glance up, leaning on the broom. “I’m appreciating my work.”
“You’re appreciating gossip,” she corrects, rolling her eyes as she starts wiping down her chair. “Don’t act like you didn’t eat up every second of that story.”
“I did not eat it up,” I say, even though I absolutely did. “I listened politely.”
“You leaned in,” she shoots back. “There was leaning involved.”
“There was not—”
“You tilted your head,” she cuts in, pointing a rag at me like she’s presenting evidence. “That little ‘I’m totally not invested but tell me everything’ tilt you do.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I push the pile of hair into the dustpan. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet I’m not wrong.”
“Being right doesn’t make you less ridiculous.”
“It kind of does, actually.”
I dump the hair into the trash and slide the broom back into the corner, the easy rhythm of the conversation settling over me like it always does at the end of the night. This is my favorite part of the day. Not the quiet, not really, but the winding down. The way everyone’s a little looser, a little more themselves once the last client walks out the door.
Marcy’s at the front desk counting out the register, her brow furrowed in concentration. “If either of you start arguing about head tilts again, I’m locking you in here overnight,” she says without looking up.
“You love us,” Tessa sings.
“I tolerate you,” Marcy corrects.
“Same thing,” I add, grabbing a clean towel and starting to wipe down my station even though I already did it ten minutes ago. It’s not about needing to. It’s about the motion. The familiarity.
“How many did you have today?” Tessa asks, leaning against her chair now that everything’s cleaned.
“Six,” I say. “Seven if you count the walk-in that just wanted a trim and ended up telling me her entire life story.”
“That’s the best kind,” she says.
“It was, actually.” I smile a little at the memory. “She just moved here. New job, new apartment, no friends yet. She kept apologizing for talking so much.”
“Did you tell her to stop?” Marcy asks dryly.
“Of course not.”
“Olivia,” Tessa says, like she’s warning me about something I already know.
“What?” I laugh. “She needed someone to listen.”
