A hairdresser
Plano, TX. Twenty twenty-five. October third.

Clients trust me with their heads. They sit in the chair, drape the cape, and give me permission to change how they look. But lately I don’t trust my own mirrors.

Yesterday a woman asked for a trim. Shoulder length, easy layers. I cut, I shaped, I angled the hand mirror so she could see the back. She nodded. Then she frowned. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing. But the reflection shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately.

I laughed it off. “Weird angle,” I said. She didn’t look convinced. Neither was I.

This morning a man came in for a fade. Routine, simple. He was nervous—job interview—so I kept the chatter light. When I spun him to face the mirror, I swear the reflection smirked. The real man sat stone-faced, chewing the inside of his cheek. The smile wasn’t his.

I started draping towels over the mirrors while I worked. Said it helped me concentrate. Clients joked about surprises, like a makeover show. But the glass didn’t like being covered. I could feel it. The way you know someone’s staring from across a room. Heat prickling the back of your neck.

End of day, I pulled the towels. The salon was empty. My own reflection stayed a heartbeat too long in the chair, like she wanted to try it out.

Scissors are sharp, but not against glass. I locked up with every mirror uncovered. Let them have the night.