Dinner with the Hairdresser

Marjorie enjoyed the quiet before it all started—the morning stillness, the way the sun licked the blinds, soft light spittle dripping over the freshly cleaned surfaces of her salon.

She didn’t rush.

She washed her hands for sixty seconds—slow, deliberate, sacred. Fingers interlocking, palms exchanging water like some solemn transfer. Her eyes wandered, cataloging each corner, each crevice of the room as she moved through the motion. When her hands were dry, she began.

Each product on the shelf—shifted just so. Shampoo, combs, hairspray—each in its silent, immutable place. Pentylene glycols here. Diphenylsiloxy Phenyl Trimethicone there. A perfect symmetry of height and weight. Everything cruelty-free, vegan, and precisely as it should be.

For Marjorie, success began here—in the order, in the ritual.

The chairs, the mirrors—already cleaned and rechecked last night, but she ran the microfiber cloth over them again. To be sure.

She unlocked the door with the softest of clicks, inhaled deeply—…