Salt Lake City smells like diesel, hot asphalt, and sour soda. My stomach growls as I step off the bus and into the bustle of downtown. The day is heavy with heat, and the sweat sticking to my back makes my oversized hoodie cling like plastic wrap. I tug the hood lower, trying to hide the frizzed mess of curls that’ve exploded in protest of the dry air.
I’m thirteen. A duffel bag with two changes of clothes and a sketchbook hangs off my shoulder. I’ve got thirty-eight dollars, the better half of a sandwich, and no plan beyond anywhere but David’s house.
I wander for hours… through Temple Square, past the mall, and down an alley that smells like old french fries. That’s where I see her.
A woman in a sea-blue apron stands outside a salon, arms crossed, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Her skin is dark as rich soil, her short box braids tied back with a scarf. She glances over the rim of her sunglasses at me.
“Baby, who’s been doin’ your hair like that?”
I blink. “Uh... me.”
She sucks her teeth. “That hair is screamin’ for help.”
I half-shrug, caught between running and crying. “Yeah. Well… that makes two of us.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she flicks her cigarette to the curb and motions. “Come in. Sit. I ain't gonna bite you.”
I hesitate, then follow her through the glass door into a wave of warm air, lilac-scented products, and the low hum of clippers. A few women sit under dryers or flip through magazines. R&B plays softly from the speakers. The woman points to an empty chair.
“Name’s Mel. You got a name?”
“Gracie,” I mumble.
Mel nods. “Sit your tail down, Gracie.”
For the first hour, she says nothing. She shampoos my curls, her fingers firm but gentle. She conditions, detangles, then sections and braids with rhythmic ease. It’s not just hair… she works like she’s repairing something broken. Like she’s mending grief with oil and patience.
“You hungry?” Mel asks once she’s done.
My stomach answers for me with a loud growl.
Mel slides a drawer open and pulls out a granola bar. “Ain’t much. But it’ll hold you.”
I take it, my hands shaking.
“Now, I got a room upstairs,” she says, like she’s just thinking about it. “It’s small. Studio with a kitchenette and a fold-out couch. Used to rent it to a girl goin’ to hair school. Ain’t been used in a while. You got somewhere else to be?”
I shake my head.
Mel sighs, like she already knows. “Alright, baby girl. You’re gonna follow three rules. One… no stealing. Two… no sneakin’ boys or girls in. I don’t care which you like. Three… go to school. Don’t come in here thinking this is some foster home. You’re gonna work, study, and clean up after your damn self.”
My eyes sting. I nod too quickly.
“And Gracie?” Mel leans in. “If you ever run from me like you ran from wherever you came, you better leave your hair behind, ‘cause I will snatch it.”
I laugh for the first time in days. It comes out like a hiccup.