"Oh, hon," Darlene said, "I love your color. It's so rich." "Thanks," Heather said. "I'm just lucky."

"You sure are," the stylist said. "But you could have so much more depth. Y'know, I think you could use a good deep conditioning. It would really bring out your—"

Heather's punch floored her. She held her jaw as she looked up at her client, now standing before the stylist's chair. "What the hell, Heather?"

"I, uh," Heather looked around at the employees and patrons, all staring at her in shocked silence. "That just seemed really offensive. Like an attack, you know, and I..." she trailed off.

"You need to leave," one of the other stylists said. A few others, including customers, muttered agreement.

"Yeah, I..." she gathered her bag and coat, not putting them on but hugging them close to her chest. "I'm sorry," she said to Darlene. The stylist wouldn't look at her. "I have no idea what... what..." she trailed off into a whisper. The glares of the crowd pushed her out the door.

Outside, she shivered in the light rain. She shrugged on her coat and rubbed her hand, wondering if the ache blooming there meant she'd broken it.