Give some love for my story...

https://prowritersroom.com/salon-de-la-reine/

“Such a beauty! Is she a movie star?”, the girl, doing the facial of a masked lady on the back of the Salon, asked the girl who was straightening my hair. Though I couldn’t see her, I could feel her admiring side glances. I felt like a queen, regally sitting in her throne, as I sat there, having my beauty regime done at ‘SALON DE LA REINE’. It was my favourite place, a cozy corner in an usually crowded Salon.

I was used to such adoring behavior from total strangers, especially boys and many middle-aged, portly men. While some were direct, anonymously wolf whistling in the streets, the others ogled at me from safe distances. Men walking with their wives, kept their gaze straight if I appeared in their sight of vision, but as soon as they had crossed, I had noticed some of them turning back on some pretext or the other, leering at me with their half admiring half lascivious looks.

Soon, I was going to leave this middle-class neighborhood to establish a kingdom of my own at the matinees.

16 years later

I am back. It's all so changed. Being back to my roots, my town of birth and my family, feels so nostalgic. A feeling of peace transcends my whole being though numbed by pain. The cancer has spread and I no longer wish to live. But nothing in my life has gone as per my wishes, except for the first 5 years after I left this town. Then, it all started falling apart. So here I am, back to my town, to spend the last few days in peace before I get bedridden. I might as well visit 'Salon De La Reine' for old times' sake, in my favourite Cosy corner. 

As I glance at myself with trepidation in the mirror, a precocious girl, as beautiful as a rose bud, long tresses cascading from her petite shoulders, stares back at me. The vision is momentary, but it is enough to break my resolve, I am hit by violent convulsions of pent-up despair, the tears just flow undammed. 

I feel two hands holding my shoulders, then embracing me from behind, trying to comfort me. As I wipe away my tears with shaking hands, I realize it's the same girl who had straightened my hair, all those years back, albeit with extra kilos on her frame. I try to force a smile but break down again. Then, before I can react, she reaches for the electric hair trimmer, puts it to her thick, afrotextured hair and just like that, she is standing there, all bald and beautiful. Overcome by her empathy, I stand and envelop her in a tight hug while she caresses my bald, chemo-affected head, as incessant tears flow in that Salon.