Two weeks had passed since Aunt Mariko's ultimatum, and Aiko felt like she was slowly suffocating. Her hair had returned to its previous neglected state—not because she wanted it to, but because any attempt to care for it properly resulted in suspicious questions and increasingly harsh punishments.
The brief taste of acceptance she'd experienced at school had made returning to her invisible existence even more painful. Her classmates had quickly lost interest once her transformation faded, and she was back to being the girl everyone forgot was there.
But the memory of those gentle hands working through her hair refused to fade. If anything, it had grown stronger, more vivid, accompanied now by a burning need to understand what her mother's world had really been like. What had driven her aunt to such fury at the mere mention of hairstyling? What terrible thing had supposedly happened that made Mariko so determined to keep Aiko away from anything connected to beauty or transformation?
It was during one of her mandatory walks to and from school—the only time she was allowed outside the house—that Aiko found herself standing before a small salon on Maple Street. She'd passed it dozens of times before, but today something made her stop and really look.
The sign above the door read "Sato Hair Design" in elegant script, and through the large front window, she could see an elderly woman with silver hair working carefully on a client's head. The salon was modest but immaculately clean, with vintage styling chairs and mirrors that reflected warm, golden light.
Aiko pressed her face against the glass, watching the woman's hands move with practiced precision. There was something mesmerizing about the careful sectioning, the gentle manipulation of hair that seemed almost like a dance. This was what her mother had done, this careful artistry that transformed not just appearance but confidence itself.
The woman inside—Mrs. Sato, according to the sign—looked up and caught sight of Aiko watching through the window. Instead of shooing her away or looking annoyed, she smiled and gave a small wave.
Aiko's heart hammered as she realized she'd been caught staring. But something in the woman's kind expression gave her courage. Before she could lose her nerve, she pushed open the door.
A small bell chimed overhead, and the scent of lavender shampoo and professional hair products enveloped her like a gentle embrace. It was warm inside, cozy in a way that made her think of what a real home might feel like.
"We're closed to walk-ins today, dear," Mrs. Sato called out without looking up from her client's hair. Her voice was gentle but professional. Then she glanced toward the door and paused, taking in Aiko's appearance—the carefully hidden desperation, the too-large school uniform, the hair that spoke of neglect despite obvious attempts at self-care.
"I'm not here for service," Aiko said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was wondering... I was hoping..." She took a shaky breath. "Could I work here? Help around your shop? I don't need payment. I just want to learn."
Mrs. Sato's weathered hands stilled in her client's hair. The client—a middle-aged woman having her roots touched up—turned to look at Aiko with curious eyes.
"Learn what, exactly?" Mrs. Sato asked gently, her tone neither dismissive nor encouraging.
"Hairstyling," Aiko said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I want to learn everything—how to wash hair properly, how to cut it, how to make people feel beautiful like you do. I can sweep floors, clean mirrors, organize supplies, wash towels—whatever you need. I'll work harder than anyone. I just... I need to learn this."
The silence that followed felt eternal. Aiko could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears as Mrs. Sato studied her with eyes that seemed to see far more than Aiko was comfortable revealing.
"What's your name, child?" Mrs. Sato asked finally.
"Aiko Matsumoto."
"Matsumoto..." Mrs. Sato repeated thoughtfully, and something flickered across her expression—recognition, perhaps, or memory. "And why do you want to learn hairstyling?"
Aiko's throat tightened. How could she explain the boy at the park, the transformation she'd felt, the desperate need to understand her mother's legacy without revealing how broken her current situation was?
"Someone once helped me with my hair," she said quietly. "A stranger who didn't have to care, but did anyway. He made me feel... human again. I want to learn how to do that for other people."
Mrs. Sato exchanged a meaningful glance with her client, who nodded almost imperceptibly, as if giving some kind of permission.
"And your family?" Mrs. Sato asked carefully. "Do they know you're here?"
Aiko's silence was answer enough. Mrs. Sato sighed softly, continuing her work on her client's hair while she considered.
"I'll tell you what," she said finally. "Come back on Saturday morning at seven AM, before I officially open. We'll see how serious you are about this. But I want to be clear—this isn't charity. If you want to learn from me, you'll work harder than you've ever worked in your life. Hair might look simple to outsiders, but it requires discipline, patience, and respect. Can you handle that?"
"Yes," Aiko breathed, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. "Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much, Mrs. Sato. I promise you won't regret this."
"We'll see," the elderly woman said with a small smile. "And Aiko? Whatever situation you're dealing with at home—I've been in this business long enough to recognize the signs—be careful. Some people don't understand that wanting to create beauty in the world isn't a character flaw."
As Aiko left the salon, her heart was pounding with a mixture of excitement and terror. She had just committed to something that would require her to deceive her aunt, to sneak out of the house before dawn every Saturday, to risk everything for a chance at learning skills that Mariko had explicitly forbidden.
But as she walked home through the familiar streets, she thought about the boy at the park, about the gentle patience in his hands as he worked through her tangled hair. He had seen potential in her when she couldn't see it herself. Now Mrs. Sato was offering her a chance to develop that potential, to become someone who could offer the same gift of transformation to others.
It was worth the risk. It had to be.
Saturday couldn't come fast enough, and Aiko spent the rest of the week planning exactly how she would slip out of the house undetected. Her aunt was a heavy sleeper, especially on weekends when she indulged in more wine than usual. If Aiko was careful, if she was quiet, she could make this work.
She was going to learn her mother's craft, no matter what it cost her. And maybe, in the process, she would finally understand what had really happened to drive her family apart.
The first step toward her future was just days away.