She believed she could not be saved. The hollow cheeks that made her appear decades older, the chapped lips that spoke of nights spent outside in the bitter air, and the bruised shadows beneath her eyes that told stories she never dared to tell out loud were all brutally honest confirmations of this every morning. She felt as though her spirit was a flickering flame that was just hanging on, and her body was an empty shell. She was no longer perceived as a human being, but rather as an awful object on the sidewalk, something to avoid, something that caused people to turn away and walk more quickly. In a way that only the forgotten are capable of, she had vanished. Then, one day, a stranger performed an amazing deed. She paused. She caught sight of her. She paid attention. “Let me take care of you today,” she said, reaching for Rita’s shaking hands. Her words were so soft they seemed impossible.

Rita believed she earned every averted glance, every chilly shoulder, and every minute of quiet from people who regarded her as if she were contagious, so she had spent years reducing herself to the lowest form of herself. Impatience, hurried looks, the kind of civility that hides disgust—she had come to assume the worst. She therefore prepared herself for the standard routine as she sat in Shafag’s salon chair: brief inquiries with little genuine interest behind them, robotic hands, eyes that avoided hers, and professional but quiet judgment. She was ready for distance and the subtle indications of discomfort that people make such an effort to conceal.

Shafag, however, was unique from the start. She didn’t inquire as to Rita’s actions or the reasons behind her appearance. She didn’t inquire about how she had fallen this far or what she had lost. Shafag instead posed a question that Rita had not been asked in years: “What makes you feel most like yourself?” She was surprised by the question. She herself? She couldn’t even remember who that was.

Everything felt deliberate and soft as Shafag worked. Rita’s weary skin was soothed by warm lotions, and the subtle aroma of lavender enveloped her like a recollection of security. The leisurely motion of the scissors not only removed broken hair but also lifted the burden of years of feeling undeserving. It was almost ceremonial to shampoo her hair. Rita was receiving care for the first time in a long time; she wasn’t anticipating suffering or embarrassment. Quiet, genuine, patient care. Rita came to the realization that this wasn’t a rescue operation in the midst of the cutting, washing, and quiet talking. She was broken, and this person wasn’t coming to her aid. It was a request to return to her own life, to the body she had viewed as an enemy, to a future she believed she didn’t deserve.

The last moment in front of the mirror seemed oddly secondary once the change was finished. Yes, there was a healthy smoothness to her hair that she hardly recognized. Her lips did indeed curve naturally once more; they were no longer tense or split with embarrassment. Yes, there was more than gray tiredness on her face. However, the true shift wasn’t immediately apparent. She stood higher than she had in years, and it was evident in the way she took a deep breath. Her shoulders did not curl inward; instead, they relaxed. The way she gazed at her own image without recoiling, without saying sorry, without trying to figure out what was wrong.

The world felt different as soon as she stepped outdoors, not because the street had changed but rather because she had. She didn’t look for places to hide in the darkness. She didn’t plan her escape routes as soon as she entered a room. She proceeded as someone who at last felt accepted back into the human race. The weight she had been carrying for so long didn’t go away; instead, it changed, reminding her that she had persevered long enough to deserve this moment rather than crushing her.

The future didn’t feel like a locked room she had no right to enter for the first time in years. She had the impression that she was welcome to be there. A location that awaits her. Somewhere she could start over.