One day, a husband came in to pick up his wife, who was our client.
She told him, “Pay for my manicure, honey. It’s $300.”
I froze in shock—we only charge $50. The man paid, and they walked out.
Just minutes later, the same client ran back into the salon, yelling, “You are NOT going to say a word to him! Do you hear me?!”
I stood there, still holding the payment receipt, completely stunned.
Her name was Mirella. She was one of our regulars—always showing up in designer heels, smelling like jasmine and espresso. Confident. Loud. But never rude.
“Why would you lie to him?” I asked, barely above a whisper, as the other stylists tried not to stare.
Her eyes darted around before locking back on me. “You don’t understand. He owes me,” she hissed. “Just… pretend it was a luxury package or something, okay?”
She turned on her heel and stormed out, her long ponytail whipping behind her.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Something about it didn’t sit right. I wasn’t trying to judge—I’d seen plenty of odd client behavior. But this felt… different. It felt like the tip of something bigger.
A week later, Mirella came in again. Same confidence, same routine. As if nothing happened.
Except this time, she handed me a folded twenty-dollar bill as a tip and whispered, “Thanks for keeping quiet.”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me felt guilty—like I’d been dragged into some lie. But the other part of me… wondered if it was any of my business.
Two weeks later, her husband showed up alone.
He waited at the front, clearly anxious. “Is Mirella in?”
“No, not today,” I said.
He sighed. “Figures.” Then he looked at me and asked something I wasn’t prepared for.
“Can I ask you something? Honestly?”
I nodded, heart thumping.
“That day… when she said the manicure was $300. Was that true?”
I froze.
He looked tired. Worn out. Not angry, just… defeated.
“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” he added. “I just… I’ve been wondering for a while now if she’s being honest with me. About a lot of things.”
I could feel the other stylists listening, pretending not to. I leaned in a little and said carefully, “We don’t offer any service that costs $300.”
He nodded like he already knew. Then he thanked me quietly and left.
That night, I got a message from a number I didn’t recognize.
“You had no right. I trusted you.”
It was Mirella.
I didn’t respond.
For a while, I thought that was the end of it. She stopped coming in. Her husband never returned.
But then one afternoon, almost two months later, a woman I didn’t recognize walked in—dark curls, oversized sunglasses, nervous energy.
She sat down and said, “I think I need a change.”
We started talking casually, and halfway through her haircut, she suddenly said, “You remember Mirella, don’t you?”
I nearly dropped my scissors.
She smiled a little. “I’m her sister.”
Turns out, Mirella left town after her husband filed for divorce. He’d found out she wasn’t just lying about money—she had been keeping a lot of secrets. Credit cards he didn’t know about. A second phone. And possibly even someone else.
The sister wasn’t trying to defend her, but she did say something that stuck with me.
“Mirella’s not evil. Just… tired of feeling small. Their whole marriage, she felt invisible. She thought she had to act like she was worth more, even if it meant lying.”
That hit me harder than I expected.
