The sun had barely crested the horizon when the bell above my salon door chimed, cutting through the early morning stillness. Standing there was a woman named Mirela, clutching a weathered leather purse as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes were rimmed with the heavy, dull red of a night spent in exhaustion rather than sleep. Without a word, she reached into her bag and counted out twelve crumpled dollar bills, pushing them across the counter with a trembling hand and a look of profound apology. “My son is getting married in three hours,” she…
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