Once upon a time, there lived an ordinary girl called Cinderella. Her Fairy Godmother transformed her into a beautiful woman. The Prince found her and married her. And they lived happily ever after.
But life is not a fairy tale. At least for most people. What if the Prince had found Cinderella after a long search, and asked her to marry him, and Cinderella refused? That's right, she said "No," to living happily ever after, with him.
Belive me, It happens in real life.
As Margo entered the beauty salon, she tried not to notice the client reclining in the chair. Sandra stood behind the chair, knotting the smock, which lay flat on the young client’s chest. The parts not covered by the smock revealed a plain blouse and camouflage track pants. The sleeves of the insipid blouse ended just above the lady’s elbow—almost as if to accentuate the rainbow-coloured barcode tattooed on her forearm. Margo’s eyes expertly noted the stringy, taut muscles in the arms, a dancer’s strength or perhaps a fighter’s.
She looked around the salon, smiled and mouthed “Good Morning” to a couple of her colleagues. She walked rapidly to her cabin—the door simply labelled “Manager.” Inside, she switched on her laptop and as it booted up, looked at her reflection on the dark screen. She patted a wisp of hair that had strayed out onto her forehead.
“This is a bad start,” she mumbled to herself. “When Sandra is done, and Mam’zelle looks in the mirror, all hell will break loose.” She clenched her teeth and continued mumbling, tucking non-existent strands of hair behind her ear.
“She will see nothing new, nothing different, nothing to be happy about! We are hair stylists, for God’s sake! And podiatrists and cosmetologists and shampoo-experts! We are not Fairy Godmothers!”
She exhaled sharply, trying to push away the unease. The salon had become her sanctuary, a place of routine transformations—split ends snipped, greys dyed away, brows reshaped, stories quietly exchanged. The chaos of the outside world stayed out there. Her insights and her real life experiences had helped keep the drama queens, the overly made-up, and the insecure ones—those with bitter lines around their tightly held lips—out of her salon. At least, that was the idea.
Margo wondered why all these thoughts rushed into her mind. Was her instinct warning her that Mam’zelle was going to cause trouble? Nah! She was sure that if there was beauty inside a woman, she, Margo, and her talented staff, would bring it out for the world to see.
She punched in her password, and when the customer service software filled the laptop screen, she began working, stabbing at the keys, entering amounts, names, dates and timings. She barely noticed the low hum of dryers, the scent of argan oil and ammonia lingering in the air, or the old Bollywood tune playing softly in the background.
The door to her cabin opened softly. Sandra stood there, eyes wide, breathing rapidly. “Can you come?” she whispered.
Margo snapped the lid of her laptop down, and stood up. Her fears hadn’t been unfounded.
“If there is going to be a showdown, I am not going to back down—it’s too early in the day,” she said to herself.
They walked to the chair. Mam’zelle was sitting upright, casually tilting her head one way and another, and smiling coyly into the mirror.
Her hair, a short crew cut to start with, had disappeared under a soft, body wave lace-front wig. The thick, dark curls were like clouds around her high cheekbones, tapering down to a gently rounded chin. Her skin glowed with the healthy lustre of a life lived outdoors, and the kohl-lined eyes promised mischief, adventure, and perhaps even concordance—it would be too early to call it love.
Margo felt her breath catch. The transformation wasn’t loud or glittery—it was precise, soft, powerful. It was art.
Sandra smiled her typical smile—a gentle parting of the lips to indicate satisfaction, happiness, pride—and said, sotto voce, “I’m so happy you like it!”
Mam’zelle slid off the chair effortlessly, and turned to look at Sandra and Margo.
“Sandra, sweetheart,” she said, her voice smooth as old jazz, “you are truly my Fairy Godmother! How can I ever thank you for…”—she waved her long fingers at herself from head to toe—“this?”
She continued, “I have to attend The Ball tonight. But at the stroke of midnight, I will leave the high and mighty Prince, high and dry!”
She laughed—a bright, melodic sound that filled the space like chimes in a sudden breeze. Her barcode tattoo caught the light—rainbow strands of rebellion and truth. A soul laid bare.
Margo held her breath.
This woman—this mysterious, unapologetic Mam’zelle—had walked in wrapped in wariness and camouflage. And now she stood gleaming, playful, transformed. Not just on the outside. Something more had shifted.
When Margo’s heartbeat slowed down, she calmly dug into her pocket and extended her hand.
“Here, take my card,” she said. “Call me. I’ll pick you up. I have a spare room.”
Mam’zelle arched an eyebrow but took the card with grace. Their fingers brushed—briefly, but meaningfully.
Sandra, still behind the chair, looked from one to the other and said nothing.
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