Knot Tying

When I saw her in the waiting room, I assumed she was one of the prom girls. It only said “updo” in the appointment list, and she didn’t look half as mature as most of the teenagers who came through our salon doors.
Her mother sat next to her, brimmingly pregnant and reading the bible. She barely looked up when I guided her daughter off to my station.
She squirmed awkwardly in my chair as I tried to figure out what we could do with the seemingly endless yards of hair she had. Virgin hair: never dyed, just washed and brushed and dried in the sun, and trimmed by Mama’s kitchen scissors twice a year.
I asked her if she was excited, what color her dress was…
“Color?” her eyes sprang wider, like dollhouse curtains on a string.
That’s when I saw the tiny diamond flickering on her fidgeting finger.
“How old are you?” I asked the girl.
“Eighteen last week.”
I continued twisting her hair into curls and pinning.
“I believe,” she said. “This is my path and the prophet has chosen a good man for me.”
My heart felt like it dropped through my stomach, but hands continued working. I had to help her. Save her.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered, keeping an eye on her mother who was still thumbing through the Book of Revelations by the door.
“I trust the Lord,” The young girl blinked away tears. “And if you are too weak to have faith then I pity you.”
I finished up her hair, let her pay, and let her leave.
“No tip from the fundies?” The receptionist asked me. I just shook my head.
“Strange women.”