Behind His Shadow

'Excuse me, are you using my hair-cream again?' Your hair-cream? Must everything in this salon belong to you? “Sandra, don't start with me! “ “Then stop acting like you own the place!” “ What did you just say?” “ Enough, is this a hair salon or a wrestling ring? Back to work.” The bell rang softly. It was an ordinary sound. Phoebe didn't look up at first. Saturday mornings were always busy. Hairdryers hummed, scissors snapped, and women talked to one another about weddings, parties, heartbreaks, and business deals. The scent of conditioner and hot pressing oil, floated thick in the air. It was familiar, predictable, safe. Her fingers moved with quiet confidence, parting and braiding her client's hair into neat, flawless cornrows. Her hands never hesitated. They never trembled, even when her heart did. “Phoebe, too tight.' She smiled softly. “It won't last if I pull too tight. Trust me.” Her voice was calm. Always calm. Calm was her shield. The bell rang. The sound faded slowly, then completely. Phoebe felt the silence before she understood it. She glanced up. A tall woman stood just inside the doorway, sunlight spilling behind her like a scene from a magazine cover. Her cream-colored tailored suit fitted perfectly. Gold earrings rested against her sharp jawline. Her heels clicked once against the tiled floor. It was controlled, confident, untouchable. Mrs. Laurent , the mayor's wife. Phoebe had only ever seen her in newspapers, smiling beside her husband, attending charity galas and shaking hands with diplomats. She had no reason to be here, and yet there she was. The salon owner rushed forward, nearly stumbling over a chair. “Mrs. Lawrence! What an honor. Please, have a seat.” “I need my hair done.” No smile, no small talk. The stylists exchanged uneasy glances. Nobody moved. This wasn't just a client. This was influence, reputation, and risk. Madam Rose turned slowly. “Phoebe.” The room shifted. “Yes, ma'am?” “Attend to her.” A few of the other stylists inhaled sharply. Phoebe stood, walked forward, steady and composed. Mrs. Laurent examined her carefully. “You?” “Yes, ma'am.” Mrs. Laurent moved towards the styling chair and sat down. Phoebe took out a clean towel from the drawer and carefully placed it around her shoulders. She then searched through the drawers for the necessary materials. “Get that filthy thing off me!” Mrs. Laurent gestured towards the towel. Phoebe immediately removed it. “You will not use anything here.” My staff will bring my equipment, towels, products, and tools. I have standards.” The room was still. Phoebe felt the tension, but her expression didn't change. “That's fine, ma'am.” Within minutes, two uniformed staff members entered, carrying a polished silver tray, imported products, sterilized combs, fresh white towels, folded to perfection. The tray was placed beside Phoebe. Mrs. Laurent watched closely as Phoebe wrapped the towel around her shoulders and began her work. She studied the woman's hair texture quietly. “You've used heat recently.” “Yes.” “I'll restore some moisture first.” She worked. Hair is washed, conditioned, treated, and sectioned. Her hands moved with precision. She did not rush. She did not hesitate. The salon remained unusually silent. When she began styling, she chose soft, layered waves, elegant, structured, and refined. She adjusted the angles carefully, balanced both sides, stepped back, and made a final adjustment. Finally, she removed the cape. Mrs. Laurent slowly touched her hair. She turned left, then right, examining herself in the mirror. Seconds stretched thin. Then, a faint smile curved her lips. “This is exceptional.” The salon owner nearly sagged with relief. Phoebe bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, ma'am.” Mrs. Laurent reached into her handbag and placed an envelope on the counter. “For your service,” Phoebe accepted politely. “And one more thing. You're welcome at my residence next week, Saturday morning.” The salon owner quickly stepped forward. “Yes, of course! She would be delighted.” Phoebe blinked once. “Yes, ma'am.” And just like that, Mrs. Lawrence picked up her sunglasses and left. The moment the door closed, the salon burst into whispers. “She chose you!” “Phoebe, you're blessed.” “You'll be working for the elites now.” Phoebe said nothing. She quietly walked into the back room and opened the envelope. Her breath caught. It was more than a month's salary. Her fingers tightened around the money. That evening, she walked home quietly. Her aunt stood at the doorway, arms folded. “You look too proud.” “I'm not, Auntie.” “Don't let one rich woman fool you. People like us don't rise.” “How did she know?” Phoebe thought. “It's not a big deal anyway.” She didn't argue. She just went into her small room, sat on the edge of the bed and opened the envelope again. Her breath caught. It was more money than she expected. Her fingers tightened around the paper. For a second, she imagined something different, a life beyond this house, beyond insults, beyond surviving. She whispered, 'Saturday, the mansion, the mayor's wife. Why me?' The next morning she worked, but her mind kept drifting. Her clients noticed. “Phoebe, you seem far away.” She forced a smile. “Sorry, just tired.” But the whispers followed her. People already treated her differently. After work, she went home early, showered, put on the dress she had sewn herself, and practiced speaking, practiced walking, even practiced making coffee. Exhausted, she fell asleep. Then a voice said:“Phoebe, a car's outside.' She jolted awake. 'Hold on, please.” This was it. The moment she'd been dreading and waiting