Six Weeks, Shorter – 4 Years Later… (Part 6)

Previously…

The venue smells like fresh paint and burnt coffee.

I’m there before most of the staff, badge on, clipboard in hand, phone already hot from messages. I walk the room once without stopping. I don’t talk yet. I just take inventory.

Chairs are stacked too close to the fire exit. The aisle runner is still in plastic. The lighting guy has put the uplights where they look dramatic instead of where they’ll photograph clean.

I fix things the way I fix hair: quietly, directly, with no debate.

“Those go back,” I tell him, pointing with two fingers. “And those move. Now.”

He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and moves them.

My hair is still the same cut I left the salon with weeks ago: tight at the sides, clean at the nape, the top textured and lifted into something sharp. Darker now, not showy. A look that doesn’t invite opinions. People clock it and relax because it reads as intentional.

That’s useful today.

Deliveries start arriving. Florals. Table linen. Candles. The cake stand no one remembers ordering until it’s suddenly missing. My assistant texts me a photo of a box and a question mark. I answer without looking at the box.

“That’s for the bar. Don’t open it.”

She sends a thumbs-up. Bless her.

I do another lap. I check the loading bay. I check the toilets. I check the emergency kit. Twice. Plasters, safety pins, stain remover, painkillers, deodorant, sewing kit, lighter. People think weddings are about romance. Weddings are about contingency planning.

By late afternoon the space looks effortless, which means I’ve done my job.

That’s when Eva arrives.

She’s got Samantha, her maid of honour with her and a small overnight bag. No dress bag yet. No entourage. No wedding glow. She looks like she’s walking around with a question stuck in her throat.

She spots me and comes straight over.

Sam, hangs back. She’s nervously watching everything without asking. Knowing she has an important task to carry out later on.

Eva’s eyes flick up to my hair, then back to my face.

“Tonight,” she says.

No greeting. No preamble. Just the word, placed between us like a key.

I nod. “You’re ready.”

She swallows. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” I say. “You can be scared and still do it.”

Her mouth tightens. Not a smile, but close.

“It’s just us,” she says. “In the room. No one else.”

“Good,” I reply. “Keep it yours.”

She exhales and her shoulders drop a fraction. It looks small, but I can see how much effort it costs her.

“Thank you,” she says, quieter now.

“For what?”

“For not making it a thing,” she says. “For not turning it into a speech.”

I hold her gaze. “It’s your wedding. It’s your head. You don’t owe anyone a performance.”

Eva nods once, then steps back like she’s forcing herself not to cling to the steadiness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I echo.

She turns and goes down the corridor with Sam at her shoulder. Eva doesn’t look back.

I let myself watch her for half a second, then my phone buzzes again and I’m back in it. Work first. Always.

By early evening, the venue is stable enough to survive without me hovering. I hand off half the jobs to my assistant and the rest to muscle memory.

My ring catches on my own thumb when I twist it once. Habit. A check-in. Then I drop my hand and head out.

Roxy.

⸻

The salon is lit like a stage when I arrive. Outside is dark. Inside is warm. The door is locked.

Roxy opens it from the inside before I knock.

“Come in,” she says. “Quick. It’s cold.”

The receptionist is already leaving, coat on, bag in hand. She smiles at me like I’m the last tick on her list.

“Night,” she calls, already stepping out.

The lock clicks behind her.

The click changes the room.

No one is meant to be here now. No walk-ins. No chatter. No music. No pretending.

Roxy doesn’t offer tea. She doesn’t ask about the wedding. She just points at the chair.

“Sit.”

I sit.

Cape. Neck strip. Mirror.

Under the lights my haircut looks exactly how it should: tight sides, clean nape, the top still textured and lifted. It’s a good cut. It’s been behaving. I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve started enjoying the fact it holds its shape without me begging.

Roxy studies my head like she’s reading a map.

“You’re on schedule,” she says.

“Good.”

“And you look like you’ve been holding your breath all day.”

“I have,” I admit.

Roxy huffs like that’s familiar. “Right. Let’s get you wedding-proof.”

She reaches for the sectioning clips. Then, because Roxy is Roxy, she pauses and looks at me properly.

“You know you’re my last client,” she says.

I blink. “Last client?”

“For a while,” she says. “Maternity starts now. I’m not doing ‘just one more’ and then collapsing in my kitchen. I’m not being a hero.”

The words hit harder than they should. Roxy’s been a constant. A reliable reset button. A place where I can hand over control for an hour and get it back cleaner.

“And you’ll be fine,” she adds, like she heard my thought. “You’re not helpless.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“No,” she replies. “But you were about to.”

She doesn’t let me sit in it. She never does. She reaches for the spray bottle, mists the top lightly, then starts sectioning the crown.

“Perm,” she says, matter-of-fact.

I nod. “Tight.”

Roxy’s eyebrows lift. “Tight tight?”

“Tight tight,” I confirm.

I could pretend I’m doing it for convenience. I could pretend it’s for the photos. The truth is simpler: I like how it feels when the top has structure that isn’t fragile. I like the discipline of it. I like the way it makes my head feel finished.

Roxy nods once, satisfied. “Good. You’re finally committing.”

Papers. Sections. Mini rods. Solution. The work is clinical, but the room feels private in a way that makes everything more charged. Roxy moves slower than usual. Not precious. Just tired in a real way.

Halfway through, she presses a hand into her lower back and makes a face.

“You good?” I ask.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, annoyed. “That’s a full-time job. People keep forgetting.”

She sits for a second, breathes, then stands again. Her focus returns immediately. It’s one of the things I love about her: she complains, but she still does it properly.

When the processing time is done, she rinses and neutralises, fingers careful, movements efficient. Then she dries my hair and starts shaping the top. The curls sit up and forward, compact and controlled. No fluff. No softness that reads accidental.

When she spins me toward the mirror, I see it properly.

Tight curls on top, structured and neat. Sides clean. Nape sharp. Dark tone anchoring it all.

I grin before I can stop myself.

Roxy catches it. “There she is.”

“It’s good,” I say, and my voice sounds relieved.

“It’s you,” she corrects. “Which is better.”

She reaches to the counter and taps three plain boxes.

“Your wigs arrived,” she says.

I sit up slightly. “Already?”

“I ordered them weeks ago, you menace.” She slides them toward me. “No previews. No arguments. Take them home.”

I don’t open them. I just lift one box, feel the weight, then set it down again.

Roxy points at them with her chin. “Options. Not retreats.”

“I know,” I say.

She narrows her eyes. “Say it.”

“Options,” I repeat. “Not retreats.”

“Good.” She taps the last box like it’s a warning. “And if you get the urge again—clippers in hand—text someone. Don’t do it alone.”

My throat tightens for a second.

“Okay,” I say.

Roxy nods once, satisfied. “Pay me and get out. I want to go home and lie down.”

I pay. I gather the three boxes. I take my coat.

As I head for the door, Roxy calls after me, voice dry: “Don’t let anyone bully Eva into feeling weird tomorrow.”

“As if I would,” I reply.

“Good,” she says. “Now go.”

⸻

The apartment is dark when I get home.

I flick the hallway light on and the quiet is immediate. Claire’s away on business the other side of London, which means there’s none of the usual evidence of her being in charge of the space. No half-finished mug on the counter. No jacket thrown over a chair. No movement in the bedroom.

Just air.

I set the wig boxes on the kitchen table in a neat row. Three sealed promises. I put the velvet box beside them without opening it. I keep my hands busy so my brain doesn’t start inventing trouble.

In the bathroom mirror, my hair looks even better at home than it did under salon lights. The tight curls hold their shape. The fade is clean enough to look deliberate from any angle. The brunette makes it feel grown, anchored, believable.

I touch the crown once, then smile.

I’m not fighting it anymore.

I like it.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and go to bed alone. The wig boxes stay unopened on the table. Not because I’m scared of them. Because tomorrow is Eva’s day.

I’m not stealing the story.

⸻

Wedding morning comes fast.

I wake before my alarm. The apartment is still quiet. I make coffee I barely drink and stand in the bathroom with my hair slightly slept-on and still holding its form. The perm is doing its job. The curls are compact. The structure is there even before I touch it.

I reset it anyway.

Mist. Fingers separating coils one by one. A touch of product to keep the ends defined. I shape the crown into a controlled lift that reads intentional without looking like I tried too hard. The fade doesn’t need help. It just sits there, sharp and clean.

I look at myself and nod once.

Good.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

A text.

Claire.

Short and direct. The kind of message that changes your whole day without raising its voice.

She tells me she’s booked another night at the hotel and wants me there after the wedding.

No negotiation. No explanation that asks permission. Just a plan laid down.

I stare at it for a second. My pulse shifts, then steadies.

Okay.

I send it.

Then I don’t touch my hair again. I let it hold on its own. I finish getting ready like the day doesn’t have two tracks running underneath it, because I still have a job to do.

Before I leave, I pack the three wig boxes into my bag, still sealed. I pack the velvet box too. I check I’ve got my charger, my emergency kit, and the extra bobby pins that always disappear at weddings.

The weight of the bag feels different now. More deliberate.

Then I lock the door behind me.

⸻

The venue is already buzzing when I arrive.

Catering racks. Florals being carried like newborns. A sound tech arguing with a plug socket. Someone asking where the vow books are with the same tone you’d use for a missing passport.

I slide into the centre of it and everything starts behaving again.

I fix the aisle runner. I approve the centrepieces. I redirect a waiter who keeps drifting. I smooth a problem with the seating chart before anyone can notice it’s a problem.

I keep my hands off my hair. It doesn’t need reassurance. It holds.

Mid-morning, I find Eva.

She’s in a side room with her maid of honour, robe on, makeup half done. The atmosphere is tight but not chaotic.

And her head—

Her buzzcut is fresh. Clean. Even. The line of her skull visible. She looks taller. Braver. More herself.

The room goes still for a second.

Eva spots me and her face breaks open with relief.

“I did it,” she says, voice shaking once.

“You did,” I say.

She steps closer, speaking like it’s only for me.

“I feel… like me,” she whispers.

“You look like you,” I reply. “Exactly.”

Eva’s mouth wobbles, then she nods hard like she’s anchoring herself.

Her maid of honour watches us with bright eyes and doesn’t interrupt.

Eva touches the side of her head once, then drops her hand like she doesn’t need to prove it anymore.

“Go,” she says. “Do your thing.”

“I’m already doing it,” I tell her.

And I leave before the moment turns into a speech.

⸻

When Scott sees her at the aisle, he doesn’t flinch.

He lights up.

Immediate. Unmistakable. His mouth parts like the air left him, then he smiles so wide it looks like relief. Like pride. Like he’s seeing her properly.

Eva’s shoulders drop as she walks. Acceptance lands in her body. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t shrink. She just arrives.

I stand at the back of the room and watch the whole thing go exactly how it should.

Simple. Honest. No stolen spotlight.

The ceremony holds. The timing holds. The speeches hit. People laugh at the right moments. The staff moves like a machine because I built it that way.

At the reception, I do what I always do: I keep the rails straight so everyone else can feel free.

I catch a problem with the cake before it becomes a problem. I move a table two inches so a photographer stops looking annoyed. I intercept an aunt who thinks she’s entitled to rearrange place cards.

I stay professional. I stay invisible.

A message comes in. Claire asking when I’m done.

I reply: late.

The answer that matters is already decided.

⸻

By late evening, I hand the final job roles to my assistant.

“Anything urgent, call me,” I tell her.

She nods. “Go.”

I find Eva and Scott near the bar.

Eva’s buzzcut catches light every time she turns. She looks radiant. Not because she looks like a bride from a magazine. Because she looks like herself and she knows it.

“Congratulations,” I say.

Eva pulls me into a hug. Quick, tight, grateful.

“You’re leaving?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hotel.”

Her eyes sharpen with curiosity, but she doesn’t push. She’s had enough people making her choices feel like public property.

Scott smiles at me. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

“It was your day,” I reply. “I just kept it on the rails.”

Eva squeezes my hand once. “Thank you again.”

I hold her gaze. “You did it.”

She nods, eyes bright. “I did.”

I step back. I let them have their night.

⸻

London at night is loud even when you’re alone.

My bag sits heavy against my hip. Three sealed boxes. Velvet box. The weight of options I haven’t opened. The weight of a plan I didn’t invent but agreed to.

My hair holds its shape through the walk. The tight curls stay compact. The fade stays sharp. The brunette stays grounded. I feel composed. I feel awake.

I reach the hotel and send the lobby photo I was asked for.

A reply comes back instantly.

Up. Now.

I take the lift. The corridor is quiet. Carpet too thick to let footsteps sound dramatic. My hand tightens on the strap of my bag.

I stop outside the door.

For a second I catch my reflection in the dark window opposite: controlled hair, controlled face, a woman who just held a wedding together without becoming the headline.

Then I raise my hand and knock once.

And the sound lands clean.

to be continued…