The scissors and shears were lined up on the marble counter, and the low winter light through the big window made them gleam. Beside them were the combs in the glass jar, the bright blue barbicide the color of no sky she'd ever seen.
How many years had she made appointments, taken names. How many years had she clipped, flipped, feathered, teased, tugged, twisted hair that was long or short, thin or thick, light or dark—but it was just hair. She had winked at their vanity. She'd turned away, arched a brow, smirked.
Now her own hair was gone, had come out in clumps. There were no curls to coil or lashes to wink. There was no eyebrow to raise.
She reached in the deep pocket of her smock for the new medium-brown liner and twirled it in her fingers. Lifted it to her brow. Leaned forward.
I will pencil you in, she said to the mirror.
The mirror smirked.