“Nope. Sorry. Not gonna do it.” Charlie unfastened the two snaps at the back of Amina’s neck and waved the black cape to one side like a matador.

“What do you mean you’re not going to do it? I’m the client, you’re the hairdresser, remember?”

“You’re also my friend, and you’re crazy if you think I’m going to ruin that amazing head of hair by drowning it in formaldehyde.”

“It’s out of control,” Amina said, running her fingers through the thick black mop that sprang from her skull. “My sister will kill me if I show up like this. That’s why she sent this stuff to me. I need to straighten it. It’s the only thing that will work. Please, Charlie?”

Charlie handed the bottle back to Amina. “Seriously? If you want a different look for the wedding, all you have to do is pull it up, like this.” Charlie demonstrated with a few simple twists and a handful of bobby pins.

Amina laughed. “As if I could do that. You’ll just have to come to Morocco with me, Charlie. That’s the only solution. My personal hairdresser.”

“Ha! I wish.” Charlie let Amina’s curls fall back down and glanced around the cluttered salon, her domain ever since she’d arrived in Carmel almost two years earlier to take over for her grandmother, Bea. Despite Charlie’s attempts at decluttering, the place was more crowded than ever, its walls covered with memories, its shelves and drawers sagging and bulging with antiquated tools and broken equipment from Bea’s days behind the chair, treasures that Charlie was not allowed to discard. Charlie found it suffocating. Though she adored her grandmother, she often found herself aching to be back on unfamiliar soil, living the rootless life she’d grown up with and had grown accustomed to. She’d been trying her best to settle down, to accept Carmel-by-the-Sea and Bea’s Hive Salon as her permanent home, but sometimes it felt as though she were living in a prison. “You know I can’t leave.”

“You should go, Charlie…”

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