“The clientele at the White Door all seem to know the Clarks and the Mattesons. I had a visit from Hunter John my third day. Apparently some people—and I’m not naming names—aren’t happy with that and spread the word. Not that I was busy before, but there seems to be a reason for it now.”

“Did you cut his hair?”

“No, he wouldn’t let me. It’s a shame, because I do great men’s cuts,” Sydney said. “I was the one who cut Tyler’s hair.”

“You were?”

“Uh-huh. And Bay’s and my own.”

“So…so people have been snubbing you?” Claire asked. “Not even giving you a chance?”

“If this keeps up, I’m not going to be able to keep the booth. But maybe it’s just as well,” Sydney said, putting her arm around Bay. “I’ll get to spend more time with Bay. And I’ll be free to help you anytime you want.”

Claire had been in a hair salon three times in her adult life, only when her hair would get too long to control and she needed a couple of inches taken off. She went to Mavis Adler’s Salon of Style on the highway. Mavis used to make special house calls to cut Claire’s grandmother’s hair, and if Mavis was good enough for her grandmother, she was good enough for Claire.

Claire didn’t consider herself a rube, and she’d passed by the White Door countless times, but when she walked in and found leather couches and original artwork and a gaggle of some of the more wealthy women in town, some of whom she’d catered brunches, lunches, and teas for, she suddenly felt frighteningly out of place.

She spotted Sydney in the back, sweeping hair from around another stylist’s chair, looking beautiful and self-contained. She looked so alone, which was all well and good for Claire, but not for Sydney.

Sydney saw her and immediately walked to the reception area. “Claire, what’s wrong? Where’s Bay? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. I asked Evanelle to watch her for an hour or two.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to cut my hair.”

A crowd of stylists and patrons gathered around Sydney and Claire. Rebecca, the owner of the White Door, stood like an instructor, waiting for Sydney to begin. Whispers of Claire’s beautiful long hair and Sydney’s untested abilities floated around like dust motes.

“Do you trust me?” Sydney asked as she pumped up the chair after she’d washed Claire’s hair.

Claire met her sister’s eyes in the mirror. “Yes,” she said.

Sydney turned her around, away from the mirror.

Over the next few minutes, Claire’s hair felt lighter and lighter as wet chunks of dark hair fell onto the smock she was wearing, looking like thin strips of molasses candy. Every so often, Rebecca would ask Sydney a question and Sydney would answer confidently, using words like beveled cut and wisps of bangs. Claire didn’t understand what it meant. It made her think of bevel-cut crystal bowls and wisps of steam rising from curried rice.