My Cardboard Balcony

Personal Stylist by Belinda Roddie She snipped the stranded strands of my faded silver hair with her tiny rose gold scissors and the sliding metal sound sent a chill like a locomotive rolling, rickety, down my spine. I hadn't gotten a haircut from anyone else in well over fifteen years, which made sense, given that no one else would sneak soft kisses on the nape of my neck at a professional salon.

And A Fire Blazes by Belinda Roddie Take me to a warm tavern where the mead's good.