She came into my salon just after sunrise, her hands trembling, her eyes red from tears. I was sweeping the floor, half-listening to the hum of the blow dryer in the back, when I noticed her standing by the door. She clutched a worn purse to her chest and looked like she’d been carrying the weight of the world.
“Can I help you?” I asked, setting down the broom.
She pulled a few crumpled bills from her bag — twelve dollars in all. “This is all I have,” she added quickly, her cheeks flushing with shame.
I didn’t ask questions. I just led her to a chair, placed my hand gently on her shoulder, and said, “Let’s make you feel like a queen today.”
Up close, I could see the toll life had taken on her — lines etched deep from worry, hair dulled by time, hands that told the story of decades spent working too hard. Her name, I would soon learn, was Mirela.
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