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.
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.
The next morning, I arrived to open the salon and stopped dead at the door. The entire entrance was buried in flowers — lilies, roses, carnations, even wildflowers in mason jars. They covered the floor and the counter, filling the air with a dizzying sweetness.
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