She came into my salon just after sunrise, shoulders tense, eyes swollen from tears, and hands trembling around a faded purse. I was sweeping the floor, half-listening to the quiet hum of dryers in the back, when I noticed her hovering by the door like she wasn’t sure she belonged there.
“Can I help you?” I asked, setting the broom aside.
“My son’s wedding is today,” she whispered. “I… I don’t want to embarrass him.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a few crumpled bills—twelve dollars. “It’s all I have,” she said, cheeks burning with shame.
I didn’t hesitate. “Sit down,” I told her gently. “You’re getting the works today.”
Up close, I saw the story written on her face—years of exhaustion and quiet endurance. Her hair was thin and gray, her skin weathered, but her eyes… they still held something soft, something resilient. Her name was Mirela.
As I ran my fingers through her hair, she told me bits and pieces. How her husband used to take her to salons just because he loved seeing her smile. How she stopped going after he died. “He always told me I looked beautiful,” she said. “Even when I didn’t feel like it.”
I curled her silver hair into soft waves, brushed shimmer across her lids, and gave her a rose gloss that caught the light. I didn’t try to make her look younger. I wanted her to look like herself—the self she’d forgotten for a while.
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