Chapter 12 - ALL MY CURLS
Two years after the haircut, Alison asked for a real haircut.
Not a corrective trim.
A choice.
She was seven.
Her curls had grown just below her shoulders again.
Megan tried to act normal when Alison announced it over cereal.
“How short?”
Alison pointed to her chin.
Megan nearly dropped the spoon.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was the point.
They booked an appointment with the same stylist who had told Alison, If you say stop, I stop.
Eric came too.
He sat in the waiting area.
Not directing.
Not photographing without asking.
Just there because Alison invited him.
Before the stylist began, she asked:
“What do you want?”
Alison held her fingers below her chin.
“Here.”
“Do you want me to save the hair?”
Alison thought.
Then shook her head.
“No.”
“Okay.”
First cut.
Alison watched in the mirror.
No fear.
Second.
Third.
Curls landed softly on the cape and floor.
Megan felt her throat tighten.
Eric looked away once to wipe his eyes.
Alison caught him.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just hair.”
Megan almost laughed at the irony.
Eric did too.
“Today it is.”
The stylist finished.
A soft chin-length bob with natural curls framing Alison’s face.
She touched it.
Smiled.
Then asked for the mirror showing the back.
“Good?”
“Good.”
Megan paid.
Alison thanked the stylist.
Outside, late-afternoon sun hit the sidewalk.
Alison spun once and her shorter curls bounced around her jaw.
“Do you like it?” Megan asked.
Alison stopped.
Then gave her mother a look far too serious for seven.
“I like that I picked.”
Megan’s eyes filled instantly.
Eric laughed.
“Your mom’s crying.”
“I see.”
“Rude,” Megan said.
Alison grinned.
They walked toward the parking lot.
Three people.
No perfect family restoration.
No remarriage.
No erased history.
Just better boundaries.
Janice eventually sold her share of Bell & Bloom and moved to another state. Her professional board resolved the complaints with discipline and required additional consent-related training rather than some dramatic lifelong ban. Megan heard she continued treatment for alopecia and began wearing high-quality wigs openly.
Megan hoped she was healthier.
From a distance.
Rachel—no, Janice—never became part of Alison’s life again beyond two therapist-approved letters the child chose not to answer.
Eric continued being her father.
More present.
More exact.
Less charming about absence.
Megan continued being the mother who had once dropped a backpack on a porch because she saw her daughter’s hair and understood instantly that something had been taken.
Years later, that pink backpack ended up in a donation pile.
Megan found one blond curl caught deep inside the front zipper.
Long.
From before.
She held it between two fingers and felt the old rage rise for just a second.
Then Alison, now ten, called from upstairs:
“Mom! Can I dye one streak blue this summer?”
Megan laughed.
“Ask your father too!”
“I already did! He said it’s my hair!”
Megan looked at the old curl again.
Then let it fall into the trash.
That was healing, she discovered.
Not preserving every piece of what was taken.
Not requiring the hair to grow exactly back.
Not pretending the damage never mattered.
It was raising a child who understood, all the way down to her bones, that nobody gets to turn love into a bargain for access to her body.
The curls came back.
Then Alison chose to cut them herself.
And that second haircut meant more to Megan than the first one ever could.
Because this time nobody needed anything from her.
Nobody promised Daddy.
Nobody called her selfish.
Nobody said it would make the house happier.
The scissors moved only because Alison said:
“Yes.”
May you like
And when she was finished, everyone stopped.
Exactly where she asked.
