Amelia’s POV

I cut my hair on a Saturday morning, sitting in a cheap salon that smells like chemicals and new beginnings.

“How much?” The stylist—Kara, according to her nametag—runs her fingers through my hair, assessing. It’s been growing for three years, down to the middle of my back because Daniel once mentioned he liked long hair on women.

“All of it.” The words feel like freedom. “Just above my shoulders. Something different.”

Kara’s eyebrows rise, but she ...