Then I saw something stuck to the shoulder.
Tiny pieces of chestnut hair.
My stomach dropped.
“Emily.”
She ran upstairs.
I found her sitting on her bed with her knees pulled tightly against her chest.
“Sweetheart, let me see.”
“Mom, please.”
I sat beside her and carefully lowered the hood.
For several seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
Her waist-length hair was gone.
In its place was a short, uneven pixie cut.
“Oh, Emily.”
Tears immediately filled her eyes.
“Who did this?”
She looked away.
“Did somebody cut your hair without permission?”
Nothing.
“Emily, please answer me.”
Finally, she whispered, “Ask Grandma.”
“What?”
“Please, Mom. Ask Grandma.”
“Why?”
Her chin trembled.
