Her voice was barely a whisper. “My son’s wedding is in a few hours,” she said. “I… I don’t want to embarrass him.”
She pulled a few crumpled bills from her bag — twelve dollars in all. “This is all I have,” she added quickly, her cheeks flushing with shame.
Up close, I could see the toll life had taken on her — lines etched deep from worry, hair dulled by time, hands that told the story of decades spent working too hard. Her name, I would soon learn, was Mirela.
As I ran my fingers through her thinning gray hair, she sighed. “I used to come to salons when my husband was alive,” she murmured. “He always said I looked beautiful, no matter what. But after he passed, I just stopped.”
I curled her hair into soft silver waves, brushed a gentle shimmer over her eyelids, and pressed a rose-tinted gloss onto her lips. I added just a hint of blush to her cheeks — not to hide her age, but to celebrate it.
When I turned the mirror toward her, she gasped. For a moment, she didn’t say a word. Then her smile — small at first — spread into something radiant. Her hands went to her face. “Oh my,” she whispered, eyes welling up. “I look like… me again.”Continue reading…
