Landon's POV I was sitting in the old leather armchair by the window, staring out at the backyard where the bonfire pit still smoked from this afternoons barbecue, while Mom fussed with my hair like I was five again. Her fingers tugged and twisted, as the comb scraped against my scalp in that rhythmic way she'd done a thousand times, like she was sculpting a masterpiece out of a lump of clay. We'd been at it for damn near an hour now, and every five minutes, she'd step back, squint at me under the lamp light, and sigh in frustration. "Hold still, honey," she murmured, as her fingers deftly separated another section. "The waves aren't right; it'll droop by dinner if I don't pin it just so. You want to look sharp for your own birthday, don't you?" "Mom, we’ve been at this for an hour," I grumbled, shifting on the stool. My ass was going numb. "It’s just hair." "It’s not just hair," she chided in a firm voice. "It’s your presentation. And I can’t decide if the side part makes you l
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