6- Between Scissors and Secrets

POV Isabella:

Welcome to Shopping JK Iguatemi—the words gleamed on the silver sign above the entrance. The kind of place where I could pretend to be rich without anyone questioning it (or calling me crazy). Packed with families and people as free as me and Mom, it was my dream to one day walk into Gallerist and drop serious cash without worrying about financial ruin. But like all luxury malls, it also had affordable stores like C&A and Riachuelo, catering to every style and budget.

And those were where I’d be shopping.

Still hesitant about maxing out Mom’s credit card, I picked just a few pieces—strategically choosing things that matched what I already owned. But Dona Ana surprised me by piling my arms with her selections. I didn’t argue—just accepted the gifts.

We strolled leisurely, window-shopping, just enjoying each other’s company—something we hadn’t done in ages. The woman beside me was a fighter, having built her name as a hairdresser when I was just a kid. Back then, we lived in a tiny four-room house in the North Zone, constantly moving from one place to another. Even without resources, she’d turned one room into her first salon, starting with nothing but guts. Slowly, she built a loyal clientele, and with it, financial stability. Then Marcos came along, bringing hope. Together, they rented a space in the South Zone—since running had become our fate again, and the little house was no longer home. A risky but necessary loan later, Cherry Fashion found its new address: Shopping Iguatemi.

And there we were.

"Now, hair and nails?" she suggested as we stepped onto the escalator, heading downstairs. "What do you think?"

Excellent proposal.

"Yesssss! And I’ll say hi to Marcos while we’re at it."

She nodded, and we headed toward the salon at the far end of the floor.

"Oh my God, gorgeous!" the hairdresser shrieked the second he saw me. "My love, I’ve missed you!"

"Hey, Marquito, how’s it going?"

"Amazing, girl." He pulled me into a hug, kissed my forehead, then turned to Mom. "Hello, boss!"

She winked at him before scanning the salon’s modern, elegant interior.

"Marcos, come here."

"Yes, boss."

"Could you please do something about that mess over there?" she joked, pointing at me—even though there was an actual client in dire need of attention right in her line of sight.

"The mess is me?" I pressed a hand to my chest, assessing my curls in the full-length mirror by the entrance. "Do I look ugly, Marcos?" I fake-whined.

"As if." He was already beside me. "Though these ends could use a trim… Maybe a botox treatment to tame the volume. What do you think?"

Honestly, cutting my hair wasn’t in my plans. I love my long, chestnut-brown hair—just past my waist—even if it never obeyed me, always with rebellious strands stealing hours of my time in front of the mirror.

But a radical change could be fun.

"Marcos, I’m in. Cut it."

"What an honor—I’ll give the college girl a makeover."

The hairdresser didn’t hesitate. First, his assistant washed my hair for a mild chemical treatment, which sat for a while before being rinsed out. Once freed, Marcos led me by the arm to his station, draped a lilac cape over me, and eyed me like a mischievous artist. He grabbed his scissors and transformed into Edward Scissorhands.

I didn’t hide my panic as the first strands hit the floor. My heart raced—I almost backed out, silently praying in regret, suffering in anticipation. Marcos just laughed, thoroughly enjoying my torment. Lacking confidence, I closed my eyes and left it in God’s hands.

An eternity later…

"Open your eyes, Isabella," the heartless man ordered—but I didn’t dare. "Open them, girl. Look at my masterpiece."

My eyelids lifted slowly.

Wow…

"God… Marcos! It’s perfect, I love it! Thank you!"

I leapt from the chair after he carefully dusted me off, removing a considerable amount of hair that had escaped the cape. I rushed to the entrance’s giant mirror, stunned by the transformation.

"Like the length?" he asked proudly. "See how it highlights your neck?"

"Yes, so much."

Marcos had chopped it all off, leaving it just past my shoulders. The treatment softened my curls, and no matter how I tossed my hair, it fell perfectly.

"I love it, Marcos!" I kissed his cheek. "Thank you!"

"Look at all the shampoo you’ll save," Mom teased, then turned to an employee. "Olga, finish up with Graça, please." She gave the order and slipped into her office.

"Now, nails and feet—then a facial."

We ended up staying at the salon way longer than planned, and I was starving. Mom suggested something I was reluctant to agree to: lunch at Delicius, my uncle Jorge’s restaurant—father of Melissa, my traitorous cousin. The rich, snobby man owned a chain of high-end restaurants.

"Mom, how many restaurants are in this place?" I groaned. "Do we really have to eat there? The food won’t even digest right."

"For God’s sake, let it go. It’s been two years, Isabella."

"Doesn’t matter. I want nothing to do with them."

She studied me carefully, then stepped closer.

"Your uncle won’t even be there. Please."

I never understood Mom’s soft spot for my uncle. The man was arrogant and had never lifted a finger to help us when we needed it. Worse—whenever he got the chance, he’d rub her struggles in her face. The stories about my father? All came from his indirects. I was just a five-year-old girl who, until then, had never had a present father. And I was fine with that—Mom had always been enough. But the snake, unsatisfied, dropped the truth on me out of nowhere:

"Isabella, your father is a cruel criminal. He beat your mother while she was pregnant with you, and kept doing it after you were born. He almost killed her—and he would have, if I hadn’t shown up in time. Because killing is easy for him. He’s a murderer."

Shocked, terrified, furious, I cried for a week, trying to process the cruelty of a man whose face I barely remembered—just his rough, bitter voice. I hate these memories.

"Come on, Isabella, just this once…" Persistence is her middle name. "Please, sweetheart?"

"Ugh, fine!"

In the end, I agreed—only because my hair looked amazing and the day had been perfect so far.

Since everyone at Delicius knew Mom, they seated us at a great table, served us excellent wine, and even brought out a filet mignon with Madeira sauce—personally delivered by the chef. At first, I thought the man was flirting with her (and maybe that’s why she’d insisted on coming here), but I was wrong—he was just buttering up the owner’s sister.

We ate in silence—damn, the food was divine. Hurt to admit.

While Mom chatted with Aunt Paula on the phone, I distracted myself by swirling the last bit of wine in my glass. I’ve never been intuitive—I can’t even meditate for a second without my mind racing. But something unsettled me: a slow shiver crawled down my spine, pulling me out of my thoughts.