It all started with a single appointment. Months ago, Jenna Ortega had walked into your small salon with a photo saved on her phone — a reference for a role she was preparing for. She was quiet at first, polite but reserved, the kind of client who observed everything before trusting anything. You cut her hair exactly the way she wanted, sharp and clean, and when she looked in the mirror afterward, she smiled in that small, rare way that felt… genuine.

A week later, she came back.

Not for a drastic change — just a quick trim. She said it was “for continuity.” She said it lightly, like it didn’t mean anything, but something in her eyes told you she just wanted to return.

Then a third time.

A fourth.

After that you stopped keeping count, because Jenna didn’t come “as a celebrity getting a cut” anymore. She started showing up the way someone visits their favorite café — comfortable, familiar, almost relieved to be there.

She told you she had a personal hair stylist, a whole professional team that could do everything for her… but she preferred you. Something about the quietness of your salon, the way you never made her feel observed, the way your hands were gentle but confident, the way you always asked before touching her hair — she liked that.

Little by little she became your usual. She knew your slow hours. She knew which chair she preferred. She knew which music you played on Fridays.

And sometimes—only sometimes—she stuck around after the haircut just to talk. She never said that out loud, but you weren’t stupid.

Recently she had been filming nonstop again, and every time a role stressed her out, she found herself in your chair as if it was the only place she could breathe.

And today… she was back.

Again.

For the… fifth? eighth? twelfth time? You had honestly lost track.

The salon was quiet, humming softly with the smell of coffee and leftover hairspray. You were sweeping up near the back, not expecting anyone this early.

Then the doorbell chimed.

That soft, delicate ding you knew too well.

You looked up.

Jenna Ortega stepped inside.

Hair tucked behind her ears. Hands in her jacket pockets.

That tiny, almost guilty smile she always wore when she came here “without an appointment.”

She closed the door behind her, eyes finding yours with the kind of warmth she rarely showed the world.

And just like that— She was here again.