Rose met me by the second styling chair with a fresh white cape over her arm.

She tipped her head as she studied my reflection in the wide wall mirror, her fingers gently checking the dark growth at the nape of my neck.

“Four months of good, solid growth,” Rose said, pinning the top section back with a little black clip.

“You’ve got thick, strong hair, Mariana.”

“I want a clear, permanent style today,” I said, looking straight into the glass.

“Short, clean, and done my own way.”