My four-year-old daughter did not cry when Clara combed through her chestnut curls at the salon. She did not whimper when the bright pink cape snapped around her small shoulders, or when Clara spun the salon chair to make her giggle. The tears only started when the scissors opened.
It was a tiny sound at first, but Olivia reacted as though someone had touched a flame to her skin. She clutched both hands tightly over her hair, screaming in terror. Every woman in the salon turned to look at us. I stood up quickly, trying to soothe her. Liv, baby, it is fine, Clara is only trimming the tangled ends. But Olivia shook her head so violently that her curls whipped across her flushed face. Daddy will not know me, she cried.
Clara froze, the metal scissors suspended in the air. My throat instantly closed, and a heavy chill washed over my body. My husband, William, had passed away three years ago when Olivia was just an infant. Since his death, she had known her father only through photographs, videos, and the blue flannel shirt I kept in a memory box beneath my bed. I had worked tirelessly to keep his memory alive without turning him into a ghost she expected to walk through the door.
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