I keep my head down and pull my coat tight as a hug. I feel their eyes on me but I don’t react. Best to pretend I don’t know, or care.
The whispers and muffled laughter are the worst. I’m not imagining them, no matter what anybody says. They echo in my mind even when I’m safely inside. It’s the same every time.
I try to ignore glimpses of tangled spikes and coiling tendrils. Look down, look ahead. Then I can’t see it.
Home at last. Avoid the mirror. I swear I’ll never let that hairdresser near me again.
This is my contribution to this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this flash fiction link-up.