Chapter 27 - The End
The stylist asked Ivy one question before touching the scissors.
“How short?”
Ivy pointed to her shoulders.
“Here.”
The stylist touched nothing yet.
“Do you want layers?”
Ivy looked at me.
I said nothing.
She looked back at the mirror.
“A little.”
“Bangs?”
“No.”
“Keep the shorter side growing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Marjorie sat three chairs away.
Not in a wedding gown.
Jeans.
Sweater.
Her hair had grown into a soft bob.
She did not speak unless Ivy spoke first.
I sat near the window.
No suit jacket.
No bodyguards inside.
No one needed protection from a salon.
The stylist combed Ivy’s long side.
Then held the first section.
“Ready?”
Ivy nodded.
Scissors closed.
A long piece fell.
My entire body reacted to the sound.
Not clippers.
Still.
Hair falling.
Ivy watched it hit the cape.
Then smiled.
“Again.”
The stylist continued.
Slow.
Checking.
Asking.
Every few minutes:
“This length okay?”
“Yes.”
“Still good?”
“Yes.”
The shorter damaged side could not fully blend yet.
Naomi—same stylist from months earlier—explained options.
Ivy chose to leave a slight asymmetry.
“It looks cool.”
“It does,” Marjorie said softly.
Ivy looked at her through the mirror.
“Don’t say pretty.”
Marjorie stopped.
“Okay.”
Then:
“It looks like you.”
Ivy smiled.
Better answer.
When the haircut ended, Naomi spun the chair only after asking.
Ivy faced me.
Shoulder-length hair.
One side still a little shorter near the ear.
No braid.
No attempt to recreate Elara.
No attempt to erase her either.
Just Ivy.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I almost said:
You look like your mother.
The old sentence came automatically.
I let it pass.
“You look happy.”
“I am.”
She touched the ends.
Then looked at Marjorie.
“Yours grew back.”
Marjorie nodded.
“So did mine.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly.”
Ivy climbed down.
Hair covered the cape and floor around the chair.
Some had been taken from her once.
This hair she had given willingly to a new shape.
No ceremony needed.
At the counter, the receptionist asked whether we wanted to keep a lock.
I looked at Ivy.
She shook her head.
“No.”
The receptionist swept it normally.
Into the salon bin with everyone else’s hair.
Good.
Outside, Marjorie stopped near her car.
“Thank you for letting me come.”
Ivy shrugged.
“I wanted you.”
Then:
“Don’t cut mine again.”
Marjorie’s face changed.
“I won’t.”
Ivy looked at me.
“And you don’t cut hers.”
There it was.
My turn.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
She hugged Marjorie for approximately two seconds.
Then stepped back.
No one treated the hug as forgiveness contract.
No one took a photograph.
Marjorie left.
Ivy and I walked toward our car.
She kept touching the ends of her hair.
“Too short?” I asked.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Then she stopped.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You ask too much.”
I laughed.
“Fair.”
She opened the car door herself.
Before climbing in, she looked at her reflection in the window.
Tilted her head one way.
Then the other.
No one behind her holding clippers.
No grandmother deciding what family should see.
No father deciding what memory should look like.
Ivy smiled at herself.
“I like it.”
May you like
Then she got into the car.
The End
