I didn’t ask questions. I just led her to a chair, placed my hand gently on her shoulder, and said, “Let’s make you feel like a queen today.”
Up close, I could see the toll life had taken on her — lines etched deep from worry, hair dulled by time, hands that told the story of decades spent working too hard. Her name, I would soon learn, was Mirela.
As I ran my fingers through her thinning gray hair, she sighed. “I used to come to salons when my husband was alive,” she murmured. “He always said I looked beautiful, no matter what. But after he passed, I just stopped.”
I curled her hair into soft silver waves, brushed a gentle shimmer over her eyelids, and pressed a rose-tinted gloss onto her lips. I added just a hint of blush to her cheeks — not to hide her age, but to celebrate it.
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