A Mother pays for her Daughters sins(vol 1)

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At six forty-two, Pamela set breakfast on the table and called upstairs. Chrissy answered from beneath her blanket, promising five more minutes. Fifteen minutes later, her mother found her sitting on the bed, blue hair falling across her phone. “Your breakfast is getting cold.” Chrissy looked up with the injured expression of someone interrupted halfway through something essential. Pamela had already packed her own lunch. She left her daughter’s plate covered and hurried out to work.
By evening, Pamela had finished two shifts, bought groceries, and answered three messages asking whether there was anything to eat. Chrissy met her at the door and carried two bags into the kitchen. “This family is exploiting me,” she announced. “You carried groceries twelve feet,” Pamela said, unloading vegetables.

Chrissy stole a piece of bread and grinned. Pamela tried to look stern, but tiredness made the effort impossible. She handed her daughter a knife and pointed at the tomatoes.
They cooked together, mostly because Pamela kept returning Chrissy to the task whenever she wandered away. After dinner, blue hair brushed Pamela’s shoulder as her daughter hugged her from behind. “Thanks for dinner.” Pamela paused with her hands in the washing-up water. “What do you want?” “Can I not appreciate my mother?” “You can. You usually don’t announce it.” Chrissy laughed and squeezed her tighter. For a few minutes, neither reached for a phone or mentioned the untidy bedroom upstairs.

Later, Pamela stood beneath the shower, working shampoo through her long brown hair. Wet, it reached well down her back, heavy enough that she divided it before rinsing. Washing it properly took time she seldom had. She towelled it gently, changed into her pyjamas, and stood before the mirror with the dryer.

When Chrissy appeared, Pamela expected another request. Instead, her daughter took the dryer from her. “Move over.” Pamela sat, surprised by how grateful she felt.
Chrissy brushed carefully from the ends upward. Brown hair spread over the chair and across Pamela’s lap, catching smooth highlights whenever the brush lifted it. “You have an absurd amount of hair.” “You say that like you didn’t inherit it.” Chrissy held up a section beside her own blue ponytail. “Yours would look good with colour.” Pamela immediately shook her head. Suggestions followed anyway: pink ends, green ends, one colour on each side. Pamela refused every proposal and enjoyed the attention.

By the time Chrissy finished, her mother’s hair lay glossy and dry against her back. “Fine,” Pamela said. “Rainbow ends. The day you dye yours completely black.” Chrissy made an offended noise. Pamela smiled at their reflections. A little later, her daughter appeared in a black dress and heels, turning sideways for approval. Pamela straightened a strap and smoothed the hair caught underneath it. “Text me when you get there.” “Yes, Mom.” “And not at three in the morning.”

Three days later, that easy evening already felt distant. Pamela came home carrying shopping to find abandoned plates in the living room. Chrissy’s bedroom looked worse. Clothes covered the floor, glasses stood beside the bed, and an old meal had been pushed beneath a chair. Pamela picked up the plate and called her daughter. Chrissy arrived holding her phone, irritated before either had spoken. “What?” Pamela looked around the room. “You said you would clean this yesterday.”
“I’ll do it later.” “You said that yesterday.” “Then I’ll do it tomorrow.” Pamela put the plate down harder than she intended. “Food, Christina. You’ve left food sitting in here.” Chrissy folded her arms. Pamela heard her own voice becoming sharper and could not soften it. She had worked all day and still needed to cook. There was no clean space on the desk for the plate. “I asked you once. Just once, do something before I have to ask again.”

The argument spread beyond the bedroom. Pamela listed the shopping, the cooking, the shifts. Chrissy said nobody had asked her to do everything. “If I don’t, who will?” Pamela demanded. Her daughter’s expression closed. Soon she was changing into her black dress, pulling her long blue hair loose over her shoulders. “I’m not staying here for this.” Pamela followed her down the hall. “We’re not finished talking.” “I’m twenty-three, Mom.” “Then start acting twenty-three.” The door slammed before Pamela could regret it aloud.

At eight seventeen, Pamela collected the washing. She found a photograph while clearing the dressing table: Chrissy younger, smiling, pressed against her side. She set it upright and finished the room. Near midnight she moved to the sofa. At one, she sent a message asking her daughter to text. At two fourteen, she checked whether it had been read. At two forty-seven, another unanswered call ended. Pamela sat holding the phone, listening to the refrigerator switch on in the kitchen.
Someone finally answered at the club. It was not Chrissy. A young woman shouted over music, then turned away from the receiver. Pamela heard her ask whether Chrissy wanted to speak. There was a pause. “She says she doesn’t want to talk to you.” Pamela thanked the woman because she could think of nothing else to say. At three thirty-one, she went to bed. She told herself Chrissy was safe with friends. She was still awake when the phone rang again.
The clock read five oh-three. “Mom?” Chrissy’s voice was small, strained, entirely sober. Pamela sat up. “What happened?” Her daughter inhaled unevenly. “I screwed up. I can’t pay.” Pamela was already throwing back the covers. “Pay for what?” “Please come. They’re going to cut my hair.” For a moment Pamela could not connect the words. Then she reached for yesterday’s trousers, asked for the address, and told Chrissy to stay exactly where she was. She would be there soon.
The Velvet looked unpleasant in the early morning. Inside, purple lights still illuminated the bar, although staff had begun stacking chairs. Chrissy sat with her arms folded, her magnificent blue hair hanging forward around her face. Pamela put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?” “No.” A suited manager approached with a clipboard. His explanation involved unpaid charges and an agreement Chrissy had signed. Pamela read the total twice. Five thousand, one hundred and twenty dollars. Her stomach tightened.
“I didn’t realise how bad it had gotten,” Chrissy whispered. Pamela wanted to ask how anyone could miss a figure like that. Instead, she looked through the charges and asked about instalments. The manager shook his head. He referred to opportunities already offered, then tapped the signed document. Hair sale. Auction. Proceeds applied to the balance. Pamela glanced at her daughter’s long ponytail. “Why didn’t you call before signing this?” Chrissy stared at the table. “I was scared.”
A woman in black approached. “Christina? We’re ready.” Chrissy stood so suddenly that Pamela caught her elbow. The woman led them to a salon chair near the remaining audience. Someone brought a cape. Someone else adjusted the lights. Pamela stayed close enough for Chrissy to see her without turning. The stylist gathered the blue hair behind the chair, combing it into a thick, low ponytail. Its smooth length hung almost to the seat. Chrissy’s hands gripped the armrests.
“The first part of the agreement,” the stylist said, securing another band. Pamela watched the comb disappear into the dense blue length and emerge cleanly at the ends. It had taken years to grow. Chrissy had spent hours choosing its colour, protecting it from heat, complaining whenever Pamela suggested a trim. Now a stranger was deciding where to place scissors. Pamela reached across the chair. “I’m right here.” Her daughter caught her hand and held it with unexpected strength.
The first closing of the blades barely seemed to change anything. The ponytail remained attached, lifted away from Chrissy’s back. Then the stylist worked deeper into it. Chrissy flinched at the rough, repeated sound beside her neck. Pamela watched the remaining connection narrow until the heavy length came free. Without its weight, the shorter hair swung forward against her daughter’s cheeks. Chrissy lifted a trembling hand to the uneven ends. “Oh my God.” Pamela squeezed her fingers but could offer no reassuring lie.
The stylist levelled the remaining hair into a short bob. Blue pieces slid onto the cape with each snip, leaving Chrissy’s neck exposed. When the cape came off, she looked smaller in the chair. The severed ponytail was placed in her hands. She held it against her black dress, turning the bound end toward herself as if checking that it really belonged to her. Then someone asked her to stand. There were still people watching. An auctioneer raised his microphone.
“Five hundred,” a woman called. Chrissy stared past the lights. Another voice offered six. At seven hundred and fifty, Pamela looked toward the bidder, then immediately back at her daughter. She could not bear the polite interest on the spectators’ faces. A paddle marked 104 rose above the crowd. “One thousand.” The auctioneer repeated the amount, waited, and called the sale. Chrissy handed over the ponytail slowly. Her empty hands remained cupped for a moment before falling to her sides.
Pamela calculated the remaining balance and felt no relief. A broad, bald man near the front lifted his hand. “Another five hundred if I get to shave the rest.” Chrissy turned toward her mother. Pamela’s first impulse was to refuse for her, loudly enough to end the discussion. Instead, she saw how carefully Chrissy was waiting. “It’s your decision, sweetheart.” The bob brushed her daughter’s jaw as she looked down. After several seconds, Chrissy nodded. “Okay.” Pamela stayed beside the chair.
Before the stylist returned, Chrissy leaned toward her mother. “Are you angry with me?” Pamela looked at the long blue strands caught beneath the chair arm and freed them carefully. “Yes.” Her daughter swallowed. Pamela kept her hand on hers. “But I can be angry and still stay.” Chrissy nodded without looking up. Around them, glasses clinked and someone laughed at something unrelated. Pamela wished they had somewhere private to sit, somewhere her daughter could stop trying so hard to look composed.

The cape returned. This time the man approached with clippers. He rested a hand on the crown of Chrissy’s head and positioned the cutting edge at her forehead. The buzz seemed much louder than the microphone had. Chrissy shut her eyes when the first pass moved backward. A broad strip appeared through the blue hair, revealing pale, close stubble beneath. Loose strands folded onto the cape. She opened her eyes and raised one hand, stopping just above the unfamiliar surface.
“That’s really short,” she said. The man guided her hand down and made another pass beside the first. More blue hair dropped across her shoulders. He widened the cleared area over the crown while the sides still hung in blunt sections beside her face. Chrissy watched her reflection with her lips pressed together. Pamela could see her trying to keep still. When the clippers paused, her daughter whispered, “I look ridiculous.” Pamela answered quietly, “Temporarily.” Chrissy glanced at her, almost smiling, then looked away.
The sides came next. The man folded one ear forward and ran the clippers upward, removing the blue curtain that had framed Chrissy’s cheek. Her silver hoop suddenly looked prominent against the exposed skin. Another pass cleared the hair above it. He repeated the process on the other side, then lowered her chin to reach the back. Long pieces from the remaining nape section fell separately, landing on the floor. Pamela watched the little blue patch diminish with each upward movement.
Pamela wanted to ask whether she could keep a little of it. The thought embarrassed her, and she said nothing. Chrissy had chosen that blue herself, sitting beside her mother with colour samples spread across the kitchen table. They had argued about the bathroom towels afterward. Such an ordinary argument. Pamela looked down at the cut hair and understood that she would gladly have cleaned every stained towel again. She straightened when Chrissy reached for her, giving her daughter both hands. For now, that was enough.
Chrissy bent forward, staring at her covered knees. The man checked behind both ears and worked across the crown again, evening the stubble. Blue hair lay scattered around the chair, bright against the dark floor. Pamela remembered brushing those lengths out of Chrissy’s face when she slept on the sofa. Now there was nothing to move aside. When the clippers stopped, the sudden quiet made her daughter look up. The man brushed her neck, removed the cape, and stepped away.
Pamela rested her palm gently on the newly clipped crown. The stubble felt soft in one direction, rough in the other. Chrissy gave her a warning look. “Don’t.” “It looks all right, sweetheart.” “Mom.” Pamela bent closer. “You’re still the prettiest girl in the world.” Her daughter exhaled, embarrassed and grateful at once. Then the manager returned with the figures. One thousand for the ponytail. Five hundred for the shave. Total raised: fifteen hundred. The remaining balance was three thousand, six hundred and twenty.
Pamela asked again for time. The manager refused again, although he offered to close the matter for thirty-five hundred immediately. Chrissy stood beside her, touching the back of her head as though she kept forgetting. “I’ll work,” she said. “I’ll pay it back.” Pamela looked at the tablet, then at the exit. Neither held an answer. Behind them, the bald bidder spoke again. “Twenty-five hundred.” Pamela turned. He was looking directly at her. “For hers.” His gaze moved down her long brown hair.
“No,” Chrissy said immediately. Pamela gathered a section over her shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. The offer had changed everything in the room. “Mom, no. Don’t even think about it.” Pamela looked at her daughter’s exposed head, her exhausted face. She wanted to be furious. She was furious. But Chrissy was standing here, waiting for her to find a way home. Pamela touched her cheek. “I can’t let one stupid night ruin your life when I can help.” Chrissy’s eyes filled again.
“Three thousand five hundred,” Pamela told the bidder. “And I need one week to prepare myself.” He considered her, then shook his head. For that amount he wanted more than the ponytail. He wanted to shave her head. “Absolutely not,” Chrissy said, stepping between them. Pamela’s fingers tightened around her hair. A week suddenly felt terribly short. “You pay now,” she said at last. “The cut happens in one week.” The man offered his hand. Pamela took it before she could change her mind.
Outside, morning light caught the short stubble on Chrissy’s head. The receipt in Pamela’s bag showed a zero balance. Her own hair still brushed her hips, unchanged for seven more days. “I’m sorry, Mom,” Chrissy whispered. “This is all my fault.” Pamela put an arm around her and guided her toward home. She could feel her daughter struggling not to cry. She could also feel every inch of hair against her back. Next week, she would be the one in the chair.

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