With a name tag that read “Leslie,” the saleswoman looked me up and down like I was gum on the tile.
“If you can’t afford a decent haircut,” she said, loud enough for the whole boutique to hear, “you definitely can’t afford anything in here.”
We live in a women’s shelter. Our house burned down last year—my husband’s DIY electrical “fix,” and the insurance company called it negligence. While I was still picking through ashes in my head, he packed a suitcase and left.
“I can’t start over,” he said, as if I had a choice.
So I started over. I took the only job I could find—cashier at a grocery store—learned how far a paycheck stretches when it has to, and pretended the sound of a scanner beep didn’t feel like failure. Every spare dollar goes to Jenny: food, school supplies, shoes that fit. I cut my hair with kitchen scissors six months ago. I don’t remember the last time I wore makeup. I recognize my kid’s joy. I don’t always recognize the woman in the mirror.
Which is why I shouldn’t have set foot in that boutique. But back-to-school is loud with promises, and I wanted to give my girl one new thing.
Leslie leaned in, voice syrupy with malice. “Unless you’re here to mop the floors, I don’t know why you’re touching our merchandise. Sweetie,” she added to Jenny, “don’t get attached to anything. Your mom can’t buy it.”
The room tilted. I turned, blinking hard, and felt Jenny’s hand thread through mine.
Which is why I shouldn’t have set foot in that boutique. But back-to-school is loud with promises, and I wanted to give my girl one new thing.
Leslie leaned in, voice syrupy with malice. “Unless you’re here to mop the floors, I don’t know why you’re touching our merchandise. Sweetie,” she added to Jenny, “don’t get attached to anything. Your mom can’t buy it.”
The room tilted. I turned, blinking hard, and felt Jenny’s hand thread through mine.
