Winter at the Salon

The woman came in with winter on her clothes.

Not snow. Street winter. Diesel, wet wool, and the hot-metal stink that rose from subway grates when slush hit steam.

The salon fell still.

Foils hung in the air. A blow dryer clicked off. A client with wet foils in her hair stared over her shoulder, mouth parted. Two stylists near the washing station shifted back as one body.

The woman’s hair dragged behind her in a fused rope, gray-brown and stiff, sweeping the marble floor like a dead thing. One boot was split at the toe. Her coat was gone. The hem of her sweater showed through a crust of salt and grime.

She stopped at the center of the room and looked around as if she had walked into the wrong planet.

“Miss,” one stylist said, voice thin. “You need to leave.”

The woman did not answer. Her fingers touched the hollow at her throat, then dropped.

Théo Lindqvist came around the mirror wall with his gloves still on. “I’m sorry, but this is a private appointment house.”

She took one step back.

The rope of hair scraped the floor again.

A client gasped.