Fallon
Chapter four
Twisted Scissors
Brightly colored tiles reflect the morning sunlight soaking in through the large windows.
Shimmering, the iridescent rainbow colors around me are precisely why I chose to have them installed.
Methodically, I mop the front of the salon, blissfully happy.
This place is my little haven carved out for the community through dedication, sleepless nights, and a whole mess of tears. The thought pulls a smile from me.
Five years as a salon owner deserves celebrating.
Maybe eventually. But we live in a small town, and I’ve spent too long guarding myself to risk losing my inhibitions at the local pubs.
Around here, people don’t need much ammunition.
Being Rosemary Lawson’s daughter—the town’s infamous drunk—already puts a target on my back.
Add in the fact I’m a single mother who’s never named the father, and, that’s two scandals too many.
Anxiety tightens my chest. Hesitating at my thoughts.
My earlier encounter with Mom bombards the cheerful moment, robbing me of it.
She cornered me outside the salon, demanding money, insisting I owed her for ‘raising’ me.
But that’s who she’s always been—someone who brought me into this world to use as leverage in a game she already lost.
Her biting words filter through my mind again.
“Fallon, age is catching up with you. You really oughta be out having fun, dating, having some drinks, meeting a man, getting laid.”
“Mom. Okay, rude. If you have the name and number of a decent fellow in this area code, by all means steer him my way.” I’m not serious.
I would never trust her opinion of a man.
She has a revolving door of them. I’m not slut-shaming: do your thing, just do it somewhere else.
I crave stability, a great credit score, no criminal record, no addictions, masculinity without abuse, and last but not least, I crave chivalry.
I run two successful businesses and a household alone.
Having someone decide what we’re eating for dinner, or someone to take out the trash wouldn’t be so awful.
I haven’t met anyone I am willing to bet my happiness or my child’s happiness on.
They are always…lacking. So, I have a better chance of falling in love with a dragon. Sigh.
“Fallon, you’ll encounter a plethora of young, single guys here. Men who come from wealthy families, that’s the kind you want. Old money always pays.” I flinch at the insinuation.
I watched as she flicked the cigarette ashes onto the sidewalk between us, her bright red polish chipped on a broken nail.
And I absently wonder who she assaulted last night.
She’s infamous for three things: drinking, fighting, and fucking.
In a city with a substantial population, no one would know her name.
In a small town? Her name is all people talk about.
Wind whipped her limp hair through the space between us.
I held my breath against the suffocating stench of stale liquor and smoke, praying the smell doesn’t cling to my hair.
Ash smeared across the concrete as the toe of her scuffed boot grinds the last of her cigarette into the pavement, tarnishing the carefully curated charm I work so tirelessly to maintain for my clients—and this town.
My shoulders locked at the careless display.
Respect has always meant more to me than most after growing up as Rosemary’s daughter. Rumors never trailed far behind us.
My efforts have taken years to build fragile trust with our community.
No one wants to have their eyes closed at a shampoo bowl if the stylist or her mother is robbing you blind.
Hence, the reasoning for us having this conversation on the sidewalk and not inside my business.
We have ground rules for a reason; they’re simple.
No drinking if she intends to visit.
I will buy her groceries, clothes, and help with bills, but under no circumstances will I give her cash, a check, or a debit card.
No random guys.
And last but not least, the most important one—she’s not allowed inside my salon or home.
We live in the same town, yet, she has seen my daughter once.
When she was first born, long enough to sneer down her nose at her.
“You could have gotten more if you had born a boy with someone of substance, instead of that middle class fool.” I have never forgiven her, it’s easier to give her what she wants and be done with it. It’s less.. Messy.
She immediately lit another cigarette; the stench permeates the air around us.
I would install one of those tall ashtrays that the other shops have.
She would take it as me encouraging her, and that’s the last thing she needs.
Her ashes fell to the ground and I cross my arms tightly around my midsection.
In this town, keeping Main Street beautiful takes all of us. The city’s resources stretch thin, so local businesses pitch in—flowers, decorations, clean sidewalks, all of it maintained through community effort.
I do my part wherever I can.
Because as charming as small towns look from the outside, they can turn ruthless fast. I’ve spent years proving my daughter and I belong here—that we deserve community, trust, and a place in this town.
I strive to be gracious, truly I do. My mother makes it difficult.
She’s never going to change. Pushing the intrusive thought back, my keys jingle as they’re slid into the lock, hoping to escape the morning’s rant if I slipped inside.
She followed as far as she’s allowed to go.
Fan-fucking-tastic, giving my shop a once-over from the doorway, I can’t distinguish if it’s disgust or envy etched into the lines of her face, aging prematurely due to an excess of… well… everything.
“You wouldn’t need this place if you had some wits about you and married well.”
There lies the problem: my mother has pushed the same agenda my entire life—find a wealthy man.
As if that strategy worked out so beautifully for us the first time.
Even after years of building my success, she still presses.
If she knew how stable I actually am, she’d realize I don’t need a sugar daddy to survive.
But honesty with Rosemary has always come at a cost. She’d bleed me dry if I let her.
And I can’t afford that. Not with a child depending on me.
The woman needs therapy, rehab, and a reality check. I shoved my red hair from my face, an old interview quote surfacing in my mind. Cher once said, “Men are like dessert—lovely, but unnecessary.” That philosophy has carried me through most of my adult life. I fell once. That was enough.
A sadness and longing for the woman across from me to be different constricted my chest. One of my first life lessons was that she’s merely my birthing human.
She’s never cared about my well-being. Holidays, birthdays, milestones—she rarely shows up, and when she does, trust never follows. Years of disappointment cemented that truth long ago.
If I believed she could change, I’d help her. But letting Rosemary too close has always come with consequences. Give her access to our home, and half our belongings would end up in a pawnshop before sunrise.
My daughter deserves better than that.
My heart fractures a little more for the maternal bond I’ve spent my whole life craving but will never have. Her venomous words loop endlessly in my head. My grip tightens around the mop handle, scrubbing harder with every pass, but her bitterness clings to me all the same.
“Fallon, spending weekends playing rummy with old hags, especially uppity ones like Lani McCoy, isn’t gonna get you where you need to be.
How long until this place goes under and you’re left with nothing?
I raised you to be smarter than this. Wasting your days in this salon, trifling with the same townies that treated us so poorly our whole lives, I’m ashamed to have you as a daughter. ”
My mother always hid her intentions behind a smile, though the truth sat plain as the nicotine stains on her teeth and the emptiness in her eyes. Growing up meant enduring the constant reminder that I—the daughter she called a mistake—stood at the center of every problem in her life.
I was her planned accident, the child she believed would pull her out of poverty. She genuinely thought a man with a wife, a decade-long marriage, and a thriving political career would throw it all away for her and a baby.
What a delusional woman.
Soft bells chime, pulling me out of the memory of my mother and the weight she always leaves behind.
Jules fills the salon doorway in a burst of warmth and chaos—my fellow stylist, closest friend, and certified menace—put together in that effortless way she swears she ‘doesn’t try for.’ She’s all smiles and sunshine until her wedged sandal snags the doorframe.
My eyes widen. She stumbles in with a sharp gasp. Two coffees balanced like a miracle in one hand while the other flails for anything solid. I hold my breath, bracing for impact. Her fingers catch the doorframe at the last second.
A breathless laugh spills out of her as she steadies herself, barely saving the drinks. Not a drop spills. Of course not—Jules doesn’t do anything halfway, not even falling.
She straightens, smoothing her spine like nothing happened, and flashes me a bright, unapologetic grin. “Graceful entrance,” she announces. I exhale, shaking my head as the salon settles back into its usual hum.
That was impressive, I think to myself. Great, we’re both in for a chaotic day.
“Jules! Are you okay?”
Her eyes soften with amusement, that unmistakable Jules-effect already working its way through the room. She smiles like she was built for it—effortless, disarming. It’s the kind of warmth people don’t realize they’re leaning toward until they’re already there.