I used to think a salon was about vanity—polish and paint, a quick swipe of gloss before the next client.
Now I know it’s about dignity.
It’s about the quiet rescue in a comb through, the gentleness in a steady hand, the way a stranger can say, without words: You matter to me.
If Mirela hadn’t walked in clutching twelve dollars and a prayer, I might still be watching the clock and chasing profits.
Instead, I learned that the smallest mercy can tilt a life.
So do the small thing today.
Hold the door. Call back. Leave the extra tip.
Wipe away a smear of mascara and tell someone they look like themselves again.
You might be the miracle they didn’t know how to ask for.
