People sometimes treat hairstyling like something you do when you couldn’t become something more important.
After twenty-seven years behind a chair, I know better.
Hair is not really about hair.
It’s about trust.
When someone sits in your chair, they hand you the part of themselves they cannot see.
The back of their head.
Their reflection.
Their time.
Their personal space.
And, eventually, their secrets.
There is something about sitting beneath bright salon lights while another person works around you that makes people talk.
I have heard clients tell me things they had never told their husbands.
Their children.
Their closest friends.
Sometimes even their therapists.
I have always kept those stories private.
For twenty-seven years, what was said in my chair stayed there.
Until Ashley.
Ashley was the one story I had to write down.
My name is Carol Ann Reese.
For twenty-six years, I was also Carol Ann Eckert.
That was the name I took when I married Dale Eckert in a little church in Warner Robins, Georgia, the summer before I turned twenty-three.
Forty-three people attended.
My aunt made the cake.
My shoes started hurting before the reception was halfway over.
And I married Dale because I loved him.
That matters.
I really did love him.
I loved the man he was before the business became successful.
Before the money.
Before success transformed him into someone who believed every room should rearrange itself around him.
The Dale I married used to bring me coffee at eleven in the morning when I was still working for another stylist because he knew I had been standing since eight.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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