Page 86 of The Truth of Us

The stylist lifted a section. “Just the ends?”

I opened my mouth to say yes. Then stopped. In the mirror, Margot’s eyes met mine. She said nothing, just waited with a warm smile on her face. I thought about Harper Lane, about the woman who could walk into a Northwell meeting and make powerful men listen.

I thought about Harper Montgomery, the woman with glitter freckles who had laughed on New Year’s Eve. The woman who wanted to be seen and was terrified of what that might cost.

Then I thought about Elliot running his fingers through my hair; the memory hurt, but not enough to stop me.

“No,” I said softly.

The stylist paused. “How much?”

I lifted my hand and touched the ends, then brought my fingers to just above my shoulder. “When it’s straight, I want it here.” Margot’s mouth parted slightly. “And when it’s curled,” I added, my voice growing steadier, “I want it to look shorter. Playful.”

The stylist smiled. “I can do that.”

The first cut made my stomach drop, the second made me exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. By the time she was finished, several inches of blonde hair lay on the floor, and the woman in the mirror looked like someone I barely recognized. A long bob brushed just above my shoulders, soft and blunt enough to feel intentional. When the stylist curled it loosely, it bounced around my face, making my eyes look brighter and my cheekbones sharper.

I stared and could feel a smile tugging up at the sides of my mouth.

Margot stood behind me, one hand pressed to her chest. “Oh, Harper.”

I laughed nervously. “What?”

“You look like… you.”

My throat tightened. She didn’t say beautiful, or like my mother, not polished or… I look like me.

I reached up and touched the ends. It felt lighter, and I somehow looked lighter too.

After hair came lunch, then shopping, or more accurately, Margot closing down a boutique and pulling clothes from racks while I protested, but secretly loved them.

Soft sweaters, a green dress I never would have tried on, a sparkly cocktail dress that Margot joked would be great for the boardroom, jeans that actually made me understand why people cared about denim, and a ridiculous floppy hat that made Margot clap when I stepped out of the fitting room.

After such an incredible day, for the first time in weeks, maybe months, maybe years, I wanted to take a picture of myself. Not for optics or branding. Just because.

So I did. In the back of the car, surrounded by shopping bags, wearing the ridiculous hat low enough to shadow most of my face, I lifted my phone and took a photo in the window reflection.

You could see my new hair, my blue nails, my mouth smiling, but not enough of my face to identify me. I posted it before I could overthink it.

Captioned: trying something new.

Margot glanced over. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” I said, like a teenage girl caught texting a cute boy.

Her eyes narrowed. “Harper.”

“I posted a picture.” I huffed out.

She gasped dramatically. “Of your face?”

I shot her a look because, even though Harper Montgomery’s social media was very popular, I had a rule that all my close family and friends included nothing identifiable.

“Progress, not miracles.” She said, shaking her head and staring out the window.

I laughed. Then my phone buzzed and buzzed again, and again. Comments, likes, and messages.

Mostly people I knew, followers who must have notifications set up for my content because they are always on it as soon as it goes live. Emily Bennett, somehow, which startled me enough that I stared at her name for a full ten seconds. I hadn’t realized she followed my accounts.