“I’m not sure how,” Gloria confessed, her own eyes filling. She’d cried more this last week or two than she had in the last decade. As if something had thawed inside her, letting loose a stoppered flood of tears.

“You listen to me, Gloria Rosemarie. Backbone runs in our family. It did not skip a generation,” Sara insisted, her voice stern.

Gloria was the last in a long line of independent, steely, sometimes terrifying women. The last ten years had stripped her of any resemblance to her ancestors. She knew it had to be a terrible blow to her mother. To see her daughter lose herself to an unworthy man.

Bone-weary in this bright, cheerful kitchen, disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Who would ever want her like this? Why would someone big and beautiful and vibrant like Aldo Moretta want a crushed and damaged flower petal?

“Tsk tsk,” her mother clucked. “Enough of this pity party.” She threaded her fingers through Gloria’s long, unstyled hair. “I think it’s time we make a change. Yes?” Sara was studying her with the critical eye of a professional.

Gloria patted her thick, shapeless mane. “Just like old times?”

“Yes, but with margaritas.”

“Then absolutely yes,” Gloria decided.

Her mother danced from the room. Music, bright and Latin, sounded from a wireless speaker near the refrigerator. It was a ritual they’d enjoyed a long time ago. Kitchen makeovers. Bonding. Music and laughter.

For the first time, Gloria felt like she’d really come home.

* * *

“Your good taste hasn’t been damaged,” Sara decided as she snipped and fluffed.

Gloria studied the picture on the incredible Pinterest app her mother had introduced her to and swallowed hard. She’d begged her mother to choose a style for her. But Sara had refused. “You must get used to making your own decisions again,” she’d said wisely.

Fortified by tequila, Gloria bypassed the safe shoulder-length styles and took her first big risk. She winced as inches of her dark hair fell to the warm tile floor. “It’ll grow back,” she reminded herself.

“You’re not going to want it to,” Sara predicted, rubbing a serum between her palms. “You will love this.” Her mother worked the product through what felt like very, very short hair.

“Oh, God. What have I done?” Gloria groaned and reached for her margarita.

Her mother smirked without sympathy and drained the rest of her drink.

“Should you be cutting hair while under the influence?”

Sara snorted. “I do my best work with tequila.”

Gloria laughed despite herself and gave herself over to her mother’s ministrations.

“Okay. Time for the reveal.” Sara handed Gloria the mirror handle. “New beginnings call for new hair.”