Page 122 of Butter My Biscuit

“Honey, I’ve seen thousands of women walk through that door with that same look on their faces over the years. How short?”

I hold my hand to my shoulders. “No bangs though. I’m not having a crisis—yet.”

“We’d all be there for you if that were the case.” She laughs and glances at the other stylists, who have older ladies in their chairs.

I look at all of them. “So, which one of you is Dolly Parton?”

One rolls her eyes. “We’re too superstitious to pick. Ain’t none of us dying.”

“Oh yeah, I forgotSteel Magnoliaswas sad as hell. Never mind then,” I say, sitting in the chair.

Georgina lifts and places a silk apron over my head.

“Show me again where you want me to cut,” she says.

I change my mind and point to my chin. “I’m ready for a new me.”

She sucks in a deep breath. “Want to donate it?”

“Yes,” I say.

She separates it into different ponytails, then cuts one strand.

When I hear the first sound of the shear against my hair and she lifts up the long chunk and hands it to me, the tears start falling. I didn’t mean to cry, but the emotions I’m feeling overwhelm me. I always kept my hair long for Harrison because he loved it that length. Many nights, he’d twirl strands between his fingers, and sometimes, I imagine hovering above him and my hair falling in his face. It’s those images that haunt me when I try to fall asleep.

She places her hand on my shoulder.

“It’s happy tears, I promise. It’s just … that hair has been with me through a lot. It was kinda a part of my identity.”

“Sweetie, we can’t undo what we’ve done, but know that hair grows back and hearts heal.”

I nod, and she finishes, then spins me around. I stand and hold my long ponytail in my tight grip. Then, she takes a picture of me with my phone. This will eventually be a memory that I look back on.

“You look happy as fuck,” she whispers, leading me to the sink for a wash.

Then, I’m brought back to the chair, where she does her magic and adds layers. Then, she gives me the most perfect blowout, and I know I will never be able to get my hair to look like this again. When she’s done, she gives me the mirror so I can see the back.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I tell her, shaking my head. “It feels so light.”

“We just cut off what feels like five pounds of hair. I’m sure it does feel that way.”

I laugh. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house,” she says.

“No, let me pay for it,” I argue.

“If you don’t get your ass outta here right now, I’m gonna call your mama and tell her what you did before you get the chance to,” Georgina threatens, and then she gives me a hug.

I step out the door, feeling like a different woman, almost like I could fly home. By the time I walk back in the door, Remi is changed into actual clothes, and she’s at the table, putting together a puzzle.

She gasps, then rushes toward me, pulling me into a hug. “Your hair looks amazing! Oh my God!”

“Thought I’d quit my job and cut my hair.”

“Fearless,” she says.