Page 3 — The Stylist’s Silence And The Mirror I’ll Never Forget
Saturday morning, we drove to Rose Salon. Jennifer—my friend for more than a decade—greeted us with her usual warmth.
Emma asked for a short cut. Very short.
Her voice wasn’t dramatic.
It was urgent.
At the shampoo station, Jennifer made small talk like she always did.
Emma stiffened when Michael’s name came up.
It was subtle—barely a flinch—but it was there.
Back in the chair, Jennifer started trimming, lifting sections, cleaning the neckline.
Then her hand stopped.
Her whole posture changed.
