Not because they could fix it.
They couldn’t.
But because Meadow was shaking so hard she couldn’t stop touching her head, and I needed someone gentle around her.
The stylist—a woman named Reina with silver braids and kind eyes—took one look at Meadow and quietly locked the front door behind us even though it was still business hours.
“No one else is coming in,” she said softly. “Not today.”
Meadow wouldn’t look in the mirror.
She sat frozen while Reina carefully evened out the damage Judith had done. Not shaving it completely—just softening the jagged patches enough that it stopped looking violent.
The entire time, Meadow held my hand with a grip so tight my fingers went numb.
When Reina finished, she knelt beside her chair.
“You know what I see?” she asked gently.
