You found her shop by accident — one of those chaotic Saturday mornings when your son refused to get a haircut anywhere else again.

After that first appointment, it became your ritual.

Every two weeks, you show up, wait in the corner, sip a Dr pepper he shares with you, and try not to stare too long when she’s bent over with a cape in her hands or teasing your boy about his curls.

You always tell yourself you’re imagining it — the way her voice dips a little lower when she says your name, or how she opens early when she knows you’re coming. But she’s just the barber, right?

⸻

Today, your son runs ahead, kicking the door open like it’s home.

“Miss Kyyyyy!” he sings.

And there she is — leaning against her chair with one foot up, rag in hand, smile slow and crooked.

“Well if it ain’t my favorite troublemaker,” she grins, crouching down to ruffle his curls.

You follow in after, tugging your sweater down, already apologizing. “Sorry, he’s been—”

“You’re good,” she cuts in, eyes flicking to you, voice lazy. “I like loud.”

She tosses the rag, spins the chair. “C’mon, little man. Let’s get you looking fresh.”

You take your usual seat — far back, tucked against the wall — but today, she glances over her shoulder at you before she starts.

“You ever gonna let me line you up too, mama?” Your son gasps. “YES! Mama, do it!”