There was not—
The salon always feels softer at the end of the day.
Not quieter, exactly, because there’s still music playing low through the speakers and the hum of the dryers cooling down, but softer in the way everything settles once the rush is over.
The mirrors stop reflecting movement, the chairs sit empty instead of spinning, and the smell of hairspray and shampoo hangs in the air without being layered over itself a hundred times.
I sweep the last pile of hair into a neat line near my station, the bristles of the broom whispering across the tile.
It’s mostly dark brown with streaks of blonde, which makes me smile because that was Mrs. Hensley’s doing.
She came in convinced she wanted something “bold” and left with highlights she kept pretending weren’t exactly what she’d asked for.
“You’re smiling at the floor again,” Tessa calls from across the room, her voice light and teasing.
I glance up, leaning on the broom. “I’m appreciating my work.”
“You’re appreciating gossip,” she corrects, rolling her eyes as she starts wiping down her chair. “Don’t act like you didn’t eat up every second of that story.”
“I did not eat it up,” I say, even though I absolutely did. “I listened politely.”
“You leaned in,” she shoots back. “There was leaning involved.”
“There was not—”
“You tilted your head,” she cuts in, pointing a rag at me like she’s presenting evidence. “That little ‘I’m totally not invested but tell me everything’ tilt you do.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I push the pile of hair into the dustpan. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet I’m not wrong.”
“Being right doesn’t make you less ridiculous.”
“It kind of does, actually.”
I dump the hair into the trash and slide the broom back into the corner, the easy rhythm of the conversation settling over me like it always does at the end of the night.
This is my favorite part of the day. Not the quiet, not really, but the winding down.
The way everyone’s a little looser, a little more themselves once the last client walks out the door.
Marcy’s at the front desk counting out the register, her brow furrowed in concentration. “If either of you start arguing about head tilts again, I’m locking you in here overnight,” she says without looking up.
“You love us,” Tessa sings.
“I tolerate you,” Marcy corrects.
“Same thing,” I add, grabbing a clean towel and starting to wipe down my station even though I already did it ten minutes ago. It’s not about needing to. It’s about the motion. The familiarity.
“How many did you have today?” Tessa asks, leaning against her chair now that everything’s cleaned.
“Six,” I say. “Seven if you count the walk-in that just wanted a trim and ended up telling me her entire life story.”
“That’s the best kind,” she says.
“It was, actually.” I smile a little at the memory. “She just moved here. New job, new apartment, no friends yet. She kept apologizing for talking so much.”
“Did you tell her to stop?” Marcy asks dryly.
“Of course not.”
“Olivia,” Tessa says, like she’s warning me about something I already know.
“What?” I laugh. “She needed someone to listen.”
“You always think that,” Tessa says, not unkindly. “That everyone just needs someone to listen.”
“Most people do.”
Marcy finally looks up from the register, one brow raised. “And what about you? Who listens to you?”
I shrug, folding the towel neatly. “You guys. My family. It’s not like I’m out here suffering in silence.”
Tessa studies me for a second, her expression softening just a little. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I smile at her, easy, reassuring. “I’m good. I promise.”
It’s the truth, mostly.
There was a time when it wasn’t. When listening to people meant giving them more than they gave back. When I mistook attention for care and ended up with both hands empty more often than not. I learned. Not to shut down. Not to harden.
Just…to choose better.
To notice the difference between someone who needs and someone who takes.
That’s the thing about working here. You see people.
Really see them. You learn tone, expression, the way someone’s shoulders sit when they’re tired or the way their voice shifts when they’re lying to themselves. You learn without trying.
“Earth to Olivia,” Tessa says, snapping her fingers once.
I blink and look back at her. “Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you’re coming out with us Friday.”
“Oh.” I lean back against my station, thinking. “Where are you going?”
“Some bar Marcy’s friend recommended. Apparently the drinks are strong and the men are questionable.”
Marcy snorts. “That’s every bar.”
“Yeah, but this one’s supposed to be fun questionable, not ‘you might need to call the police’ questionable.”
“High standards,” I say.
“Always.”
I hesitate for a second, then nod. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come.”
Tessa grins like she’s just won something. “Knew it.”
“Don’t make it a whole thing,” I warn.
“It’s already a whole thing.”
“Of course it is.”
Marcy closes out the register with a final click and starts stacking the receipts. “You two done flirting with your social lives? Because I would like to go home at some point tonight.”
“We’re done,” I say, grabbing my bag from under the counter.
“Speak for yourself,” Tessa mutters, but she’s already moving toward the back to grab her coat.
We fall into the routine without thinking about it. Lights off in sections, stations checked, doors locked. Marcy flips the sign at the front from OPEN to CLOSED, and the shift in the room is immediate. Final. Done.
“Text me when you get home,” Tessa says as she pulls on her coat.
“I always do.”
“I know. I’m still going to say it.”
I smile. “Okay.”
“Drive safe,” Marcy adds.
“I’m walking.”
“Then walk safe.”
“Yes, mom.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.
I push the door open and step out into the cold, the night air hitting my face sharp and clean after the warmth of the salon. It’s fully dark now, the sky that deep winter blue that almost looks black, streetlights casting soft pools of yellow along the sidewalk.
The door closes behind me with a quiet click. For a second, I just stand there, adjusting to the shift. Inside is noise and light and people. Out here is…still. Not empty. Just quieter.
I pull my coat tighter around me and start down the sidewalk, my boots crunching lightly against the thin layer of frost that’s settled over everything.
My breath comes out in small clouds in front of me, disappearing almost as soon as I see them.
I fish my phone out of my pocket as I walk, pulling up my mom’s contact and hitting call.
She answers on the second ring. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi,” I say, smiling without thinking about it. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, your father just finished telling me about his day for the third time, so you’re actually saving me.”
I laugh softly. “You’re welcome, and tell him I said hi.”
“I will not do that. He’ll just start over.”
“That’s fair.”
“How was work?”
“Good,” I say, stepping off the curb and crossing the street. “Busy, but good. I had this woman today who just moved here and…”
And I tell her. About the woman, about Tessa’s commentary, about Marcy threatening to lock us in overnight. I don’t think about what I’m saying as much as I think about how it feels to say it. Easy. Familiar.
My mom listens the way she always does, making small sounds in the right places, asking questions that show she’s actually paying attention instead of just waiting for her turn to talk. It’s something I’ve always loved about her. “So you’re going out Friday?” she asks when I finish.
“Apparently.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It could be,” I say. “Or it could be a disaster. There’s really no in between with Tessa’s plans.”
“Just be careful,” she says, not worried exactly, but not not worried either.
“I always am.”
“I know you are.” There’s a pause, comfortable, not heavy. “Did you talk to your sister today?” she asks.
“Not yet. I was going to call her tomorrow.”
“She got the job.”
I stop walking for a second, my smile widening. “She did?”
“She did.”
“Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
“I know. She’s very excited.”
“I’m calling her as soon as I get home.”
“She’ll like that.”
We talk for a few more minutes, about nothing and everything at the same time, before I tell her I’m almost home and hang up with a promise to call tomorrow.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and start walking again, my mind still half on the conversation, half on the quiet of the street around me.
This part of town is calm at night. Not empty, but not crowded either. A few cars pass, headlights sweeping over the pavement, and somewhere in the distance I can hear music from a bar or a house party, the sound carrying just enough to be noticeable without being clear.
I pass the small coffee shop on the corner, its windows dark now, chairs stacked upside down on the tables. The florist next door still has a light on in the back, someone moving around behind the counter. Normal.
Everything feels normal.
And yet, I slow slightly without meaning to. It’s not a sound. Not exactly. More like a shift. The air feels…different.
I glance over my shoulder, just a quick look, expecting to see someone behind me. There’s no one there. Just the empty stretch of sidewalk, the glow of the streetlight, the faint outline of parked cars along the curb.
I let out a small breath, shaking my head at myself as I turn back around.
You’re overthinking.
It’s late. It’s dark. Of course everything feels a little off.
I tuck my hands deeper into my coat pockets and keep walking, my steps steady. Still, I pay a little more attention now. Not in a panicked way. Just…aware.
The way the light hits the ground. The way the shadows stretch across the sidewalk. The sound of my own footsteps.
There’s a car parked a little farther down, engine running. I notice it because the exhaust curls into the cold air, faint but visible under the streetlight. It’s probably nothing. Someone waiting. Someone on their phone. Someone warming up their car.
Normal.
I keep walking. But I don’t look at my phone again. And I don’t quite shake the feeling that something just shifted around me.
Not enough to run.
Not enough to turn back.
Just enough to notice.
Just enough to matter later.