Six thousand eight hundred dollars.

I had signed that invoice in September, and the woman at the shop had promised it would look like Evelyn’s own hair.

Brandon stared at his shoes.

His foot tapped once against the floor.

I set my napkin beside my plate and walked to the stage.

Samantha held the hairpiece out toward the guests.

“It’s called vanity,” she said.

“Some people will do anything.”