I have had a chair at Verity’s on Pellinore Road for nineteen years. I’m Marguerite Oyelaran-Doyle, fifty-four, and in this job you see more than people realize. A twelve-year-old girl named Clemency Harkness-Bly first came in one Saturday in January, alone, carrying fourteen dollars in a little purse. She booked her own dry cut and returned every three weeks, always on time.

Before every haircut, she asked the same thing: “Can you do it so this side goes over?” She wanted the hair on her left side combed across the crown to cover the right. At first, I thought it was a cowlick she disliked. Then I looked properly and noticed a plum-sized patch where the hair was thin, short, and broken at different lengths. I knew what I was seeing, though I wasn’t a doctor.

For eleven months, I said nothing. I cut her hair exactly as requested, becoming skilled at hiding the patch. I told myself her mother must know, and that speaking up might drive Clemency away. But by October, the patch had grown to the size of my palm. Eventually, there was no way to cover it.

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