She came in with swollen eyes and twelve dollars. “My son’s wedding is in a few hours,” she whispered. “I don’t want to embarrass him.” Her cardigan was worn, shoes tired, but her gaze steady. I set aside her money and said, “Sit. Let me take care of you.” I curled soft waves into her gray hair, shaped her brows, pressed a rose tint into her lips. When she saw herself in the mirror, she smiled. I refused her twelve dollars. “Go enjoy your son.”
The next morning, the salon was filled with flowers—tulips, roses, lilies, ribbons tucked into every corner. A small card read: Thank you for seeing me. Later, I learned the flowers came from her son and his wife, a gesture of gratitude for a mother who deserved to shine on her child’s wedding day.