Vanessa hugged me after I spent four hours on her $285 makeover.

She wrapped both arms around my neck, right there in the middle of my salon, and squeezed. She smelled like vanilla perfume and the iced coffee she’d been sipping all afternoon. Her new hair brushed against my cheek. Soft. Glossy. Warm brown highlights catching the light.

“Thank you so much,” she said into my shoulder. “Seriously. You’re a genius.”

Then she let go, walked over to the reception desk, heard the total, and walked out the front door without paying a single cent.

I stood there with a round brush still in my hand.

At the time, I thought the unpaid bill was the worst of it.

Then I found her video.

My name is Claire Donovan. I’m thirty-eight years old. I’ve owned my salon for three years.

Before I owned it, I worked at a chain salon in a strip mall for twelve years. You know the kind. Bright lights, plastic chairs, a sign in the window that says WALK-INS WELCOME. Twenty-dollar haircuts. Fifteen-minute appointments. A manager who timed you with a stopwatch and wrote you up if a client took too long.

I learned a lot there. How to cut fast. How to cut clean. How to fix a bad home dye job in forty-five minutes while the next client sat in the waiting area tapping her foot.