Chapter 7 - The Bob
Two days later, I sat in front of another mirror. This time, the scissors behind me were there because I'd chosen them.
The stylist studied the damage. "I can save some length."
I ran my fingers through what was left. For two days I'd been thinking about what Denise had taken from me, and I was tired of building my next choice around her at all.
"How short can we go?"
"A bob would work well on you."
"Make it sleek," I said.
When she finished, my hair fell in one clean line at my jaw. No braid. No flowers. No attempt to rebuild the version of me Denise had ruined.
Owen stood behind me. "There you are."
I met his eyes in the mirror. "What does that mean?"
"You look like yourself."
I touched the ends. "No," I said, smiling. "I look like someone who finally stopped asking for permission."
May you like
Then I stood up. When I caught my reflection on the way out the door, I didn't see what Denise had taken from me.
I saw the woman who'd decided what happened next.
