“She looks gorgeous.” Sarah reaches for my hair like I’m a pony somebody dumped at a roadside petting zoo. She’s lucky I haven’t bitten anyone since I was three. “What products do you use? Your curls look amazing.” And it hits me. She looks like me. Actually, she looks like I did when I was her age, which, if I’m willing to guess, is probably in the neighborhood of twenty-two. Somehow, I liked her more when I thought she was an air fryer. “Shampoo,” I manage to say. “And conditioner.” And to think I get paid to write dialogue for a living. “Good tip.” She smiles as she releases my hair, and I
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