Boston Mother Cancels Twenty Two Million Dollar Wedding Gift After Morning Betrayal
But there was no rest to be found in the quiet townhouse on Beacon Hill.
By Tuesday morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the granite steps of the townhouse slick and dark under a pale winter sky.
Lucia, my stylist of twelve years, arrived at eight, her small black leather case in hand.
She set the case on the white marble island in my kitchen, her movements quick and practiced.
She touched my scalp with her fingertips, her hand steady as she examined the raw skin.
“The skin is healing,” Lucia whispered, tapping her scissors against her knuckles with a rhythmic click. “But you must keep it dry.”
“It still burns under the wig,” I said, looking down at the marble counter.
“That is the adhesive,” Lucia said. “I can use a milder formula tomorrow, but it will not hold as long if you perspire.”
“I do not plan on perspiring,” I said.
Lucia lifted the silver wig from its block and held it up to the kitchen window, letting the pale morning light filter through the synthetic strands.
