Here’s a more experimental piece. I don’t usually write in the 2nd person, so be sure to let me know if you like this one in the comments!
The shop on 34th isn’t one you go to by accident. It’s not a place you go to, ever. This is where you go when there’s no hope left for the tangled mess on your head.
It works like this. In your most vain hour, staring through tears into a smashed mirror, your reflection whispers the phone number. You call. You make an appointment.
At the appointed time, you arrive, neither late nor early. A stylist who’s face you can’t quite see makes you beautiful again.
Your payment: hearing whispers from your hair. Some are innocent, some atrocious.