She walked in shaking. Her hands were trembling so hard the twelve crumpled dollars in her fist looked like they might tear. Her son was getting married in hours, and all she could imagine was being the “embarrassing” mother in every photo. I saw it instantly—this wasn’t vanity, it was a plea for dignity. I did her hair, her makeup, her nails—no charge, no questions. I hugged her at the door and honestly thought I’d never see her again. But the next morning, a crowd was waiting outside my salon, and at the very front stood that same woman, transformed, radiant, her son beside her, the gro…

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