Chapter 4: The Salon Showdown

Dawn shone through the gap in the curtains, painting the walls with streaks of gold. I stood up from the wreckage, washed my face, and headed out. The drive to the salon took me past quiet neighborhoods, coffee shops opening for the morning, and blinking traffic lights—suburban life carrying on, oblivious to my heartbreak.

The salon’s neon sign flickered, and the familiar sound of blow dryers, pop music playing from a speaker, and the aroma of fresh coffee brewing in a Keurig greeted me as I walked in.

When Tyler called me frantically, I was listening to the stylist recommend the most popular hair colors. I glanced at the caller ID and muted it, letting the phone vibrate on the counter.

Half an hour later, I sent the address to Tyler.

When he arrived, his face was deathly pale. Standing at the shop door, his keys rattled in his hand, his body shook violently. He didn't even have the courage to step inside.

I stood up, picked up several auburn hair color samples the stylist had found, and walked over to Tyler. The stylist watched awkwardly from behind the counter, and a couple of customers glanced up from their magazines.

"Pick one. Which of these auburns looks best?"

His face turned ghostly white. His lips trembled, but he couldn't say a word.

I raised my eyebrows. "So it's not these? I'll look for more."

He tried to grab me, but didn't even have the strength to reach out.

I turned away. He finally managed to tug on my hem. His lips quivered, words nearly breaking.

"Savannah, I'm sorry. But today is our wedding day—our parents and relatives are all waiting at the hotel. Let's get through the ceremony first. I'll kneel and apologize when we get back. You can punish me however you want."

I tilted my head, looking at him seriously. "Did you really work overtime last night?"

His face grew even paler, and the hand clutching my hem lost its strength and slid away.

I smiled faintly, picked up the sample book, and hurled it at him. The hard corner cut his cheek, leaving a vivid red mark. The stylist gasped, startled by the sudden violence.

He didn't dare dodge, not once. The sting of the sample book lingered, and the silence in the salon thickened.

When I was tired of hitting him, I sat back down in the chair. He followed me in, half-kneeling in front of me, his hands fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot, his tone timid.

"Are you any less angry now? The wedding is about to start..."

I closed my eyes, hiding the emptiness inside.

I don't know where Tyler's confidence comes from. After all this, how could he still naïvely think today's wedding could go on as planned?

I ignored him, called the stylist over, and had the hair I'd grown out for a year—just for this wedding—cut off. It reminded me of my old yearbook photos, of childhood haircuts before I started growing it out for Tyler.

The snip of the scissors was final, almost liberating. Each lock that fell felt like a weight leaving my shoulders. I caught Tyler's reflection in the mirror, his eyes wide and wet, but he stayed silent, standing awkwardly beside the stylist’s counter.

Tyler waited on the side, watching my hair fall to the ground, strand by strand, not daring to object.

Back to my original short hairstyle, I felt a moment of clarity.

So this is it. After all the twists and turns, short hair suits me best. What doesn't fit, no matter how long you force it—one year or eight—will never be right.

I exhaled the gloom in my heart, tipped the stylist, and walked out as the bell above the door jingled behind me.

I got into Tyler's car. The smell of leather and the hum of the engine filled the silence. After all, for everything Tyler has done, I have to explain the reason for canceling the wedding to everyone.