Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix
She whispers and something warm curls in my chest, a strange sense of belonging, of stepping into something I have always been meant to claim.
The hairstylist gets to work, parting my hair with swift expertise. The first snip sends my midnight-black strands cascading to the floor, each cut carving away the weight of the past. And I close my eyes, uncontrollable tears leaking down my face as I imagine myself shedding the years of pain and sorrow I'd endured. And when it's finally done, the fresh, shoulder-length style feels impossibly light.
Then comes the color. With steady hands, the stylist paints strokes of cool-toned balayage through my hair, blending deep charcoal at the roots into a sm
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