She tried to hand me the twelve dollars, but I pushed her hand back and shook my head. “You’ve already paid,” I said softly. “Now go enjoy your son’s big day.”
That afternoon, the salon buzzed as usual. I moved from client to client, but Mirela’s face stayed in my mind. There was something about her — that mix of strength and sorrow — that stuck with me.
There was no note, just a small card tucked into one of the arrangements:
Thank you for seeing me.
I cried right there in the doorway.
Later that week, a young couple came into the salon — a man and woman, both dressed with the polished ease of newlyweds. The man smiled when he saw me. “You’re the woman who did my mother’s hair,” he said. “I’m Daniel, and this is my wife, Clara.”
They told me that Mirela had insisted they come see me, and that the flowers were from them — bought with the money they’d received as a wedding gift. “She said you gave her back that day,” Clara said, her voice breaking. “And she wanted to make sure you knew what that meant to her.”
We talked for a long time. They invited me to dinner that weekend, and I went — hesitant at first, then grateful I did. Mirela was there too, her eyes bright, her laugh louder than I’d expected. When we hugged goodbye, she leaned close and whispered, “You gave me more than a hairstyle. You gave me courage to show up.”Continue reading…
