Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of quiet that fills a room right before a storm. Mason’s hand dropped from his collarbone, his eyes widening slightly as he took a half-step toward me on the small bath mat.
“Clara, no,” he said. “Your hair is almost down to your shoulders. You have been planning the veil and the pearl pins for six months. You spent forty-five dollars on the satin ribbons for the programs just to make sure they matched.”
“None of that matters if Maribel sits in the corner of her own grandson’s wedding feeling like she has to hide,” I said. “Well, I am not going to let her carry that shame by herself, Mason.”
“You cannot take it back once it is done,” he said.
“I don’t want to take it back,” I said.
We stood in the yellow light of the bathroom for a long minute, the decision settling between us like a physical object we had both agreed to carry.
