Diaper References

A bit late to the topic , but so lovely 

You nailed it there. It's probably one of the most difficult to achieve. So many stories are centered on the main character, and others stand by as accessories just to fulfill whatever aspect of the story serves the main character. And it's not just defining the main characters. They have to be consistent, and eventually, as the story progresses these evolve.  Personally, I would give my take: Magic to make things easy. I don't mind magic or DD, as long as it sounds feasible in an imaginative way. Not just present it "just because". Like with Harry Potter, magic exists. But it has its definition, its limits, and its uses. Don't just wave a wand, and, "voilá!". Make the reader believe it.

Mmm… Traditional British roast nappies:  I’ve been slightly shocked and amazed by what’s going on weather-wise in the Northern hemisphere and in particular, Europe and the UK lately.  As one who lived in the UK for some years, I have UK friends and have been receiving regular reports.  I’d previously experienced a truly “hot” day in London (36C!) and seen what happens (their world ends, or at least breaks down when the roads melt and train lines buckle) but these kind of days were always extremely isolated experiences.  I think I only saw one of them. Not this year.  Now somehow we are seeing wildfires in the British West Midlands.  FFS.  The land that basically invented not-quite-freezing drizzle.  I’m still trying to imagine bushfire smoke drifting across the M6. Whilst what they’re experiencing wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary in my part of the world, I know that their housing and infrastructure simply isn’t built for sustained heat.  A day here or there that’s actually hot will be simply uncomfortable and inconvenient.  Having days or weeks (or as I do, months) of high day temperatures and warm nights is going to especially suck there.  I have AC.  Lots of it.  I don’t believe any of my UK friends have any.  That might need to change. Welcome to global warming.  It’s not politics (oh that it were, it would be so much easier to fix).  It’s science.  For sure there is a certain amount of hysteria and misinformation swirling around all sides of that topic but the science is inescapable.  The tiny flecks of contrarian ‘science’ suggesting that all these climatic co-incidences are delusional are few and far between, highly selective and increasingly resemble big tobacco’s “science” suggesting that cigarettes are in fact good for you.   Whilst it may not get that much hotter than it has done before, it’s likely to get hotter a LOT more frequently and the heat will last for longer.  It’s the sustained heat that does the damage.  Other places will get colder, wetter or some combination of all of these things: symptoms of shifting climate mega-trends. As somebody who lives in a warm climate all of the time, I was asked this week how I cope with nappies in heat. There isn’t an easy answer.  The fact of it is that we’re swaddling approximately 10 - 15% of our heat-exchanging surface area with thick padding and air-tight plastic.  Nappies are superb insulators.  Then we pee in them (or worse).  Whilst the consequential trapped moisture may improve the thermal conductivity of our nappy, that same fluid entrapment removes any possibility of evaporative cooling and the locally elevated humidity even further inhibits sweating efficacy in the skin that it is covering. Nappies can suck in hot weather.  Sure, there are some strategies I use to take the edge of things. Use PUL, not plastic.  Slightly-breathable PUL waterproof pants are slightly better than pure plastic pants but with the attendant risk of slightly damp outerwear.  Obviously no plastic pants at all might be better but I wear my nappies long haul and so this isn’t safe for me. Lighter disposables (or even, god forbid, pull-ups) can help assuming that their leak-prone dysfunctionality is offset by dehydration-reduced pee volumes anyway.  My experience though is that if it’s hot I will pee less anyway.  I don’t typically need a Rearz Inspire+ mega during the day in the heat season here.  An Active Air almost always suffices.  I might make an exception for a road trip because I’m sitting on my bum in air conditioned comfort anyway there. Ditch the “onesie”.  Use shapewear panties instead.  They will still hold a nappy in place but cover less skin and insulate less. Sleep only in a nappy:  Shelve that romper.  During heat it can be a lot easier to sleep if you ONLY wear a nappy and lie underneath a fan on low speed.  Forget pyjamas.  Forget fashion.  Pray that emergency workers don’t break into your bedroom at 1am. Get used to it:  This is a big one.  The brutal fact though is that is often ISN’T comfortable but to some strange extent, you DO kind of get used to it.   Eventually.  A ‘surprise’ attack by a 35C day when you’re used to it being 20C is always going to hurt.  Your body isn’t expecting it.  It’s like being mugged at a kid’s birthday party.  But when it’s typically above 30C from say, October through to April (welcome to my world) you to a degree go numb to it.  I still complain but I don’t realise how much my internal thermostat has shifted until I have a visitor from cooler climes who dissolves into a puddle of sweat before my eyes wearing nothing more than shorts and t-shirt whilst sitting out in our garden whilst I, wearing shorts, t-shirt, a heavy nappy, plastic pants and a compression pant thought it was a nice day. The thing is though, all of these strategies pale in comparison to the strategy of NOT wearing a nappy during a heat wave. And yet we do it anyway.  Well some of us.  If nothing else, the colour of the front of your nappy come change time is an excellent indicator of how well you are hydrating. The irony here is that our “winter” here in South East Queensland this year has been unusually cool (not cold, just not warm) and wet.  This too is global warming.  The persistent pattern is generated by unusually high ocean surface temperatures off our coast.  The enhanced evaporation from this warmer water pumps moisture into the atmosphere which then falls back out onto my nappy-bearing clothesline onshore as it has been doing since April. I’ve often wondered what it would be like wearing nappies in a truly COLD climate.  Are nappies nicer in the snow?  Does the improved heat transfer of fluid make hypothermia more likely?  Does your wet nappy feel cold?  Will it freeze? Answers on a postcard please.

It's lunch time as Jacob learns a little about how to help Emma, and then it's back into the living room for a little impromptu homework. ---  I'm only able to write as much as I do thanks to the amazing support of my readers. Writing is my only income and I appreciate everyone who reads my stories more than you all can imagine. If you enjoy my stories and want to see updates a week before everyone else PLUS read 35+ stories only available on my membership sites please have a look at the links below. All support is very gratefully accepted ❤️ https://reamstories.com/elfy https://subscribestar.adult/elfy --- The new sandwich was placed in front of me, and I looked down at it. I knew what would happen if I picked it up. I would try my best to eat and would end up with food dropping everywhere. I looked up at Jacob, he had sat back down and was taking a bite of his own sandwich. He saw me looking and then he looked down at my sandwich too. I could see him doing the math and realising why my face was turning red. “Oh, do you want me to…” Jacob started. “Yes, please.” I mumbled. “OK, that’s fine.” Jacob said. I looked down at the tray as Jacob shifted his chair closer to me. The legs squeaked on the floor before Jacob picked up the sandwich on my tray. I felt so pathetic. Even a sandwich was too much for me to reliably feed myself. “I’ve never done this before.” Jacob said, “Just let me know if I do something wrong, alright?” I nodded a little and as the sandwich came up to my mouth I took a bite of it. As I chewed, Jacob put down the sandwich and ate some of his own. It was embarrassing and matters weren’t helped by Jacob not saying anything, it was like I could feel him judging me. “So, you’ve never fed a girl before?” I asked just to fill the silence. “Yeah, like I said, things are different in our house.” Jacob said, “Mom was potty trained before I was born, and she got her coordination really early. It was actually quite a shock to realise not everyone has had the same experience. Mom and Dad are pretty much equals in our house, Mom even has a part-time job.” I didn’t say anything. All I could think about was how lucky Jacob’s mom was. I practically seethed with jealousy as I was fed another bit of my sandwich, the difference between what Jacob was used to and what I was presenting could hardly have been greater. For the next little while Jacob talked more about the differences between what he was used to and what he had seen down where I was. I had never heard of families living like Jacob’s did, I never knew it was even a possibility. The idea of being equal had always been a dream, I never knew it could’ve been a reality. It made sense that my family, in this very conservative town, truly believed that by trying to better my set position in life I was acting as some sort of subversive menace, that I needed it beaten out of me, almost literally. To hear that there were some, though not many, that lived a more equal life was like finding out that Atlantis was real, it changed everything. I listened to Jacob talking about his home life as he fed both himself and me. I was entranced by the things he said, imagining a world where I was like that. Sure, Jacob’s mom still suffered from societal sexism, and she wasn’t entirely free from the struggles of her gender, but compared to what I was used to it seemed like paradise. When lunch was finished, I had to show Jacob how to unlock the tray on the highchair. I dropped down and knocked into the table as I stumbled forwards, I yelped from the sudden impact. Jacob reached out his hands and held my hips. “Are you alright?” Jacob asked with worry. I was momentarily frozen. I looked down to see Jacob’s hands on either side of me and felt tingles running through my body. The man had changed my stinky diaper and seen my lower half naked, why was this simple touch doing so much to me? “I’m… fine.” I mumbled. Jacob’s hands left me, and I wished they would come back. I wanted to feel them all over me. My cheeks went red, and I did my best to not look at Jacob, I didn’t want him to see just how obviously I was blushing. Normally, after lunch, I was put down for a nap. It meant that after eating in the highchair I had an almost Pavlovian response and started to feel a little tired. However, Jacob didn’t head upstairs to the nursery, instead he led the way to the living room and the couch. He turned the television on but kept the volume low, just as some background noise, and then signalled for me to join him. I chose to sit at the other end of the couch leaving plenty of space between us. “So, why don’t you tell me about those books.” Jacob said as he smiled at me. “I, erm, I’m not sure what to say.” I mumbled in response. I never got to talk about my interests so I wasn’t sure what people would want to hear. “Make it like a book report.” Jacob suggested. “A… book report?” I replied with some confusion. “You’ve never done a book report?” Jacob raised his eyebrows. “I mean… I’ve seen Ollie writing them, but I’ve never read one or done my own…” I mumbled. Jacob puffed out his cheeks and looked both surprised and a little angry. I felt a flash of annoyance and embarrassment. Of course I hadn’t done a book report before. The school had barely taught us the basics of reading and writing, even that felt like it was done under duress on their part, they probably wouldn’t have bothered if it didn’t hinder girls’ abilities to follow recipes or instructions. We certainly didn’t read books in school, unless you counted the overly simplistic books that were more for children than adults, and we definitely weren’t encouraged to think of them in any kind of analytical way. “Alright, that’s OK, I could… teach you, if you want?” Jacob suggested. “I’m, erm, not so good with writing.” I said. “You could give it orally.” Jacob smiled. I don’t know if he noticed how I blushed at his choice of words. “W-What do I have to do?” I asked nervously. “Well, how about this. Do you have a pen and some paper?” Jacob asked. I stood up and went across the room. There was a drawer underneath the cabinet where I thought I might be able to find some, I had to bend over to look. I looked over my shoulder briefly and for just a fraction of a second, I saw Jacob staring at my butt, he quickly looked away. Normally that would be enough to annoy me, I hated any acknowledgement of my bulging underwear, however this time I just felt myself flushing with warmth as I quickly looked at the drawer again. I liked that he was looking. “Here we go.” I said as I placed a pad of lined paper and a pen on the table. Jacob picked them up and then started writing. “Right, well, which of the books is your favourite?” Jacob asked. “Promise to not make fun of me?” I asked nervously. “Why would I make fun of you?” Jacob replied. “I don’t know. Ollie and my Dad tend to do so. So do the girls at school though I do my best not to let them see me read. I usually hide in the back of the library to do it.” I said. “I won’t make fun of you.” Jacob said. “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I said. “OK, I’ve heard of that one.” Jacob nodded his head, “About racism, right?” “Well, yes, but also lots of other things. It’s about growing up, social values, morality, and…” I started talking quickly. It hadn’t taken me long to really feel enthused by what we were doing. “Hold on, hold on.” Jacob’s pen was quickly scribbling across the paper, “I’m not a fast writer.” I smiled as I turned sideways so my legs were up on the couch. I sat cross-legged and facing Jacob, eagerly awaiting the chance to talk about one of my favourite things, something that I never got to talk about with anyone else. I knew I was already attracted to Jacob but now it felt like the pull was becoming overwhelming, he was stimulating my mind and that was the sexiest thing I could imagine. “Alright, so… tell me what happens.” Jacob said. So I did. I started to run through the plot. I was getting so excited I was frequently tripping over my words as I rushed to explain as much as possible. I had never gotten to discuss my interests like this, not even with Nicole, and now it was like my mouth was trying to make up for lost time. Every couple of minutes Jacob had to stop me so he could keep up. He asked me all sorts of questions as well. Who was my favourite character? What did I think of an event? How do I think such theme resonates today? He listened to my answers and asked follow up questions! It was something I had never experienced before. An honest to God discussion. Not just me trying to talk about something I cared about with people ignoring me or telling me to shut up, not some vapid conversation about boys or some other inanity, an actual intelligent conversation about a book I loved. Sure, Jacob didn’t know a great deal about it, but he was paying attention and asked good questions. After a few minutes I had scooted closer to him so that I was sitting in the middle of the couch. I didn’t even notice that I was doing it. I noticed my diaper was wet and I didn’t remember doing that either. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want this conversation to end, I started to become anxious that my family would come home, and I would have to stop talking. I have no idea how long we sat on that couch talking. Jacob had gone through several pages of paper and was occasionally having to shake his wrist which he said was cramping up. I increasingly felt tiredness threatening to overtake me as well. My body was used to post-lunch naps, and I was depriving it. My voice was even growing hoarse from talking so much despite drinking to lubricate my throat. Gradually I started to lean against the back of the chair. Then, as I grew increasingly tired, I started leaning forwards a little more. I felt very bold as I scooted up the couch until my arm was touching Jacob’s. I could feel something like static electricity where we touched. Jacob just kept asking me questions and I was happy to answer, the more interest he took in me the more I felt attracted to him in return. Soon I was leaning forwards with my head against Jacob’s shoulder. It felt so daring and yet… right. It was the strangest feeling. One of safety, comfort and overwhelming attraction. I had promised myself, throughout my whole childhood that I would never be like the other girls, fawning over any boy who gave them attention and yet there I was. Was I just letting my guard down to be hurt by a man? “Keep going.” Jacob said quietly. “At the end… the… Atticus and…” I was so tired, like I was coming down off a sugar rush. The excitement had completely drained me. I leaned increasingly heavily against Jacob’s shoulder as my eyes struggled to stay open. I felt like I just needed a short rest. Jacob smelt so good, the masculinity which always put me off seemed to be having the opposite effect with him. I felt the arm I was leaning against move and I almost fell even closer against Jacob’s side as the arm that had been my pillow went around my shoulders. I felt so small and safe. Instead of hating it, I brought my legs up on to the couch. My eyes were still closed as my head leaned against Jacob’s side. I could feel his heartbeat, his chest rising and falling with his breaths and found myself subconsciously matching him. ---  If you want to see what happens next RIGHT NOW you can do so at one of the following links. Thank you, and all support is very gratefully received: https://reamstories.com/page/lpjgftb4y2/story/mobgtuaba5be79/chapter/mt1a0vek382d3a17 https://subscribestar.art/posts/2645580

Book 2 – Chapter 14: Good to Go   Adrian behaved himself. Mostly. Sally pretended once or twice that she hadn’t seen three digits appear on the dashboard. The roads were empty enough that the Aventador occasionally seemed to tempt him, and her father apparently possessed just enough self-control to resist temptation shortly after indulging it. She decided not to comment. After all, he had driven supercars for longer than she had been alive. And every time the V12 opened its lungs for those few delicious seconds, Sally found herself grinning despite all the responsible things Morgan had taught her. Miami after dark had an allure of its own. Sally settled comfortably into the passenger seat and simply watched it pass. Streetlights flowed across the windshield. Illuminated towers rose beyond the palms. Storefronts and restaurants still glowed with life, while quieter residential stretches seemed almost tropical and mysterious beneath the trees. It was different being the passenger. She could look. She watched reflections slide over the orange bodywork visible through the side mirror. She let herself become distracted by the instrument panel, by the changing colors outside, by the occasional deep growl from behind them when Adrian pulled a paddle. Her Lamborghini. That thought still felt ridiculous. By the time they reached Solano Prado, the excitement of the day was finally losing its battle against simple exhaustion. Adrian eased the Aventador into the garage and shut it down. The silence that followed seemed enormous. Sally yawned. “Go to sleep,” Adrian chuckled. She covered her mouth. “No arguments there.” She raised the scissor door and swung herself up and out, stretching once she was standing. Before leaving the garage, she stopped and looked back. The Aventador definitely looked used now. There was a fine layer of Miami road dust across the lower bodywork. The tires had lost their pristine delivery appearance. There were faint marks around the wheel arches and little traces of the real world clinging to the orange paint. Sally liked it better that way. It wasn’t an exhibit anymore. It was her car. Adrian opened the front trunk and together they recovered the afternoon’s shopping, Sally taking the lighter bags while he gathered the rest. “You bought all this today?” “You were there.” “I strategically disappeared.” “Which makes you partly responsible.” “I bought one handbag.” “You encouraged one handbag.” “Which you love.” Sally glanced at the black Bottega hanging from her shoulder. “That is irrelevant.” “Of course.” They carried everything upstairs. At Sally’s bedroom door, Adrian surrendered the last collection of bags into her custody. “Good night, Liebling.” “Night, Dad.” He kissed the top of her head and disappeared down the hallway. Sally dumped the shopping beside her open suitcases. Tomorrow. Absolutely everything about those suitcases could become tomorrow Sally’s problem. She went through the little rituals of getting ready for bed almost on autopilot—washing her face, brushing her teeth, changing into a worn T-shirt and light pajama pants. The diaper came last, without analysis or frustration tonight. She taped it comfortably into place, pulled her pajama pants over it and crawled beneath the covers. Croatia. The yacht. Swimming. Salt water. Pool water. Getting dressed for dinner every evening. Sally reached behind her head and pulled the long dark hair away from beneath her neck. She frowned sleepily. That needed to go. Not all of it. But enough. A loose, shorter cut. Something that barely brushed her shoulders. Something she could wash, dry, shake out and forget about instead of spending half her vacation fighting salt, chlorine and tangles. Yes. Haircut tomorrow. That was the last coherent decision Sally made before sleep took over. -- Still in her pajamas, Sally made a point of having breakfast with her father. It wasn’t much of a shared meal—coffee for Adrian, cereal for her—but she wanted the company while she had it. She had woken thoroughly wet. After taking off the soaked diaper, Sally had forced herself into a small shrug. Whatever. Doctor’s orders. No charts, no stars, no turning every morning into an assessment of progress or failure. Deal with it, get comfortable, get on with summer. So she had. Now she sat cross-legged on the kitchen stool in her pajama pants and worn T-shirt, spooning cereal into her mouth while Adrian worked his way through his first coffee. “I need to do some shopping before we leave. And stop at the hair salon.” Adrian raised his eyebrows over his mug. “More shopping?” “Walmart. Normal stuff.” Sally gestured vaguely with her spoon. “Cereal. Food stuff that’s practically outlawed in Europe.” “And quantities sufficient to last a lifetime?” Sally chuckled. “Sort of.” She had learned from experience. Whenever she returned to America, there were certain things worth replenishing simply because finding the exact same products in Switzerland ranged from impossible to absurdly expensive. Adrian nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll get Rachel to stop by.” “I can go by myself.” “I know.” He took another sip. “I’d rather you had company. Besides, you can drive. She can act as copilot.” That changed the proposition considerably. Sally pointed her spoon at him. “Now you’re speaking my language.” “Fiesta.” She frowned. “I wasn’t going to take the Lamborghini to Walmart.” Adrian stared at her. Sally stared back. “I wasn’t.” “Good.” “Probably.” “Sally.” She broke into a grin and returned to her cereal. Soon Adrian was checking his watch. He promised he’d be home sometime after lunch, kissed Sally lightly on the head on his way past, collected his things and disappeared toward the garage. A few moments later, she heard the car leave. The house became quiet again. Sally checked her phone.   Rachel: Be there in an hour.   Perfect. She carried her bowl and Adrian’s mug to the sink and washed them rather than bothering with the dishwasher. It took less than two minutes. She wiped down the counter afterward, mostly because she could already imagine her mother’s questions about whether she was keeping the house organized. Then she headed upstairs. Walmart. Haircut. Packing. And tonight, Switzerland. Sally smiled as she climbed the stairs. Not a bad Friday. -- Looking about as anonymous as Sally could reasonably manage, she settled behind the wheel of her Ford Fiesta in loose jeans, a tight sleeveless T-shirt and sneakers, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail. Sunglasses completed the disguise, although she suspected they mostly made her look like Sally Weiss attempting not to look like Sally Weiss. Rachel climbed into the passenger seat and regarded the dashboard with faint suspicion. “I’ve never actually ridden with a learner driver.” Sally turned toward her. “You’re a bodyguard.” “Exactly. I assess risk.” Sally stared at her. Rachel frowned theatrically. “But I suppose if you can drive the Lamborghini, I should feel reasonably safe.” “Rachel, feel free to comment on my driving. I am learning.” Sally started the engine. “But I’ve also been a learner for almost a year. I graduate to full driving privileges in November, and my logbook is more than complete.” “Fair enough.” Rachel looked around the Fiesta, then ran an approving hand over the door trim. “Nice car, by the way.” Sally glanced at her, uncertain whether she was teasing. Rachel wasn’t. That pleased her. “This,” Sally announced, fastening her seat belt, “is an undercover operation. Small sedan. Walmart run. Loose jeans. No Lamborghini. What could possibly go wrong?” Rachel buckled herself in. “I’ll keep my eyes open.” “That’s reassuring.” Sally depressed the clutch, selected first and checked her mirrors. Rachel’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Manual?” Sally gave her a smug little smile. “Now you’re nervous.” “A little.” “Good.” Rachel laughed. “Let’s hit the road.” Sally released the clutch smoothly and rolled down the driveway. For once, nobody looked. Nobody raised a phone. Nobody revved an engine beside her. Sally grinned. Undercover operation successfully underway. -- “Don’t laugh.” Sally eyed Rachel suspiciously as she added another item to a shopping cart that was rapidly becoming capable of making a nutritionist faint. Rachel shook her head solemnly. “I’m not laughing.” “You want to.” “I’m being extremely professional.” “You’re chuckling.” “That’s different.” Sally gave her a look and dropped a care-pack-sized box of assorted chips into the cart. She had already collected most of the things she missed whenever she was away from America: Goldfish, several boxes of aggressively sugary cereal, Kraft Mac & Cheese, and an enormous bag of Skittles that Sally had picked up, considered for perhaps three seconds, and then decided was completely reasonable. Rachel surveyed the collection. “I have to admit, this wasn’t what I expected from today.” “What were you expecting?” “I don’t know. Security assignment. Driving. Maybe standing discreetly in the background somewhere.” She gestured toward the cart. “Not Walmart junk-food procurement.” “This is strategic procurement.” “Of course.” “And it’ll last ages. Bit by bit.” Sally pushed the cart onward. “Besides, Theresa and Jana will probably steal half of it.” Rachel recognized one of the names. “Theresa Hernandez.” “Yep.” “I’ve spoken with her.” “And Jana works with her. They both enjoy the glamorous expat life until somebody opens a bag of American junk food. Then civilization collapses.” That earned a genuine laugh from Rachel. “I suppose if I lived far enough from home, anything familiar would become appealing.” “Exactly.” Sally pointed proudly toward her accumulated contraband. “Swiss supermarkets have fantastic food. Better food, probably. But they don’t have the right bad food.” Rachel nodded gravely. “Important distinction.” “Very.” They continued through the Homestead Walmart. Strictly speaking, Sally had everything she’d come for within twenty minutes. That did absolutely nothing to encourage her toward the checkout. A general exploration was part of the Walmart experience. The toy aisle proved dangerous. Sally stopped abruptly. “Oh.” Rachel nearly walked into the cart. “What?” Sally plucked a yellow Matchbox Lamborghini from the display. She examined it. Into the cart. Two hooks farther down was a black one. Sally examined that too. Into the cart. The baby section proved even more effective at derailing the mission. Sally wandered along the shelves until she found a little set of brightly colored teething rattles. She picked it up and turned the package over, inspecting it with surprising seriousness. “Souvenir for Oskar.” She dropped it into the cart between the Skittles and the Lamborghini. Rachel smiled. “Cute.” “He’s getting more grabby now. Everything goes straight into his mouth.” “That’s babies.” “Apparently.” Sally found herself looking at several other things before remembering that Oskar already possessed an entire household of adults perfectly capable of buying him baby supplies. She reluctantly moved on. Eventually Rachel checked the time. “Sally.” “I know.” “You said haircut.” “I know.” “And packing.” “I know.” “And international flight.” “Tonight.” Rachel pointed toward the front of the store. “Checkout.” Sally sighed dramatically and turned the cart. “I could spend all day here.” “At Walmart?” “Sure.” Rachel looked around at the fluorescent lights and endless shelves as though trying to understand. Sally smiled. Shopping, she had decided, wasn’t really about luxury. Bal Harbour had been beautiful because everything there was exquisite. Walmart was fun for almost the opposite reason. There were a thousand ordinary things she didn’t need, fifty things she suddenly remembered existed, little presents she could imagine giving someone, foods that reminded her of places and people, and two miniature Lamborghinis that had somehow become essential purchases. Shopping was possibilities. It was imagination. And apparently it didn’t matter whether Sally had an American Express Centurion in a black Bottega Veneta or was pushing a squeaky Walmart cart filled with Kraft Mac & Cheese. She liked both worlds perfectly well. -- “I want it short.” Sally frowned at herself in the mirror. She hated hairdressers—not the people themselves, but the moment when they expected her to explain precisely what she wanted done with her hair. The problem was that Sally rarely knew. “How short?” Ramona asked. The Cuban hairdresser stood behind her, running practiced fingers through Sally’s long raven hair, lifting sections and letting them fall again. Sally considered. “Short.” Ramona waited. “But not short short.” “That helps enormously.” Sally caught the dry humor and smiled. “Not like a boy,” she clarified. “Loose. Something I don’t have to fight with. Maybe touching my shoulders, but not much past them.” Ramona gathered the hair at approximately the length Sally indicated and studied her face in the mirror. “Bangs?” “Not covering my face.” Sally frowned again. “But not… zero.” Ramona pressed her lips together thoughtfully. Sally looked at her reflection. “I’m terrible at this.” “No, you know what you want. You just don’t know what it’s called.” “That sounds better.” Ramona nodded decisively. “Shag.” Sally glanced at her through the mirror. “Excuse me?” Rachel’s soft drink stopped halfway to her mouth. Ramona pointed toward one of the photographs displayed on the salon wall. “Shag. Like that.” “Oh.” Sally studied it. Shoulder-skimming, layered, deliberately loose, with enough movement around the face to keep it feminine without looking carefully arranged. “Sort of, yeah.” She nodded slowly. “Actually, very much like that. But don’t paint me blond.” Ramona laughed. “Your raven hair is perfect exactly where it is. I’m not touching the color.” “Good.” “We shorten it here.” Ramona indicated around Sally’s shoulders. “Layers through here. Light around your face. Nothing falling constantly into your eyes. You can wear it messy, straighten it, tuck it behind your ears, pull some of it back. And when you’ve been swimming, you won’t need an engineering degree to deal with it.” Sally brightened. “That. I’m spending next week on a yacht.” “Ah.” Ramona nodded as though that explained everything. “Salt water.” “And a pool.” “Chlorine.” Rachel laughed quietly from the sofa. Ramona gathered Sally’s hair once more and looked critically at her reflection. “We’ll roughen you up a little.” Sally’s eyebrows rose. “Give you character,” Ramona continued. “Girl with some attitude, but we’ll let the heart show.” A grin slowly spread across Sally’s face. “That sounds poetic.” “Hair is poetry,” Ramona concluded. From the sofa, Rachel raised her soft drink in agreement. Sally looked once more at the long dark hair spilling over the cape. “All right.” Ramona reached for her scissors. “How brave are we feeling?” Sally watched the blades open beside a thick section of hair. She swallowed. “Ask me after you cut it.” Ramona smiled. “Too late.” Snip. A long raven lock slid down the cape and landed in Sally’s lap. Her eyes went enormous. Rachel nearly spit out her drink. -- Sally suffered at times. Not physically. Ramona was gentle, confident and obviously knew what she was doing. Sally’s suffering came from watching increasingly alarming quantities of black hair fall onto the cape and slide to the floor. The first long cut had been bad enough. The fifth made Sally wonder whether she had made a terrible mistake. “That seems like a lot,” she murmured. “It is.” Sally stared at Ramona through the mirror. “That wasn’t reassuring.” Ramona smiled and continued cutting. Sally had deposited her faith in this woman. She reminded herself of that repeatedly. The long weight disappeared first, bringing everything up to just around her shoulders. Then Ramona began working through it in sections, cutting layers Sally couldn’t understand, lifting strands, measuring them between her fingers and snipping with irritating confidence. Occasionally she stepped back, tilted her head, then attacked another section. Rachel remained safely on the sofa. “You’re very quiet,” Sally accused. “I know when not to interfere with professionals.” “Coward.” “Absolutely.” Ramona worked around Sally’s face next. That part made Sally particularly nervous. “Remember. No curtain.” “I remember.” “And not boyish.” “I remember.” “And—” “Sally.” She shut her mouth. Ramona softened the front instead of creating conventional bangs, leaving shorter loose pieces that could fall naturally around Sally’s face or be swept aside. Then came more mysterious snipping, texturing, drying and shaping until Sally could no longer tell what was being cut and what was merely being rearranged. Finally Ramona stopped. “Enough.” Sally immediately tried to inspect herself. Ramona caught the chair. “No.” “What?” “You’ve been watching pieces of this happen for forty minutes. You don’t get to judge pieces.” Before Sally could object, Ramona turned the chair away from the mirror. “Oh, come on.” Rachel laughed. Ramona removed the cape, brushed the stray hairs from Sally’s shoulders and spent another few minutes working behind her. Sally could feel fingers loosening the hair, a dryer briefly lifting it, then Ramona arranging it with her hands rather than forcing it into some perfect salon shape. “Don’t make it fancy,” Sally warned. “I am making it you.” “That is an alarming amount of responsibility.” “Finished.” Ramona stepped away. Sally sat very still. Rachel’s expression had changed. That was the first indication. Her teasing smile disappeared and became something much more genuinely impressed. “Oh, wow.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “Good wow?” Rachel nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.” Ramona placed both hands on the chair. “Ready?” “No.” She spun Sally around anyway. Sally looked into the mirror. For several seconds, she said nothing. Her hair was gone. Not gone, obviously—but the long, heavy fall she had known for years had disappeared. In its place was something loose and alive, barely brushing her shoulders at its longest points, layered enough that the raven-black hair seemed to move even while she sat still. Softer pieces framed her face without hiding it, falling around her cheekbones before blending into the rest. There was a slight wildness to it, an intentional imperfection that made her look younger in one way and strangely more self-assured in another. Sally lifted one hand and ran her fingers through it. The hair moved. She shook her head. It moved again, then simply fell back into place. Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Ramona folded her arms. Sally tucked one side behind her ear. Then she pulled it free. She pushed both hands through it and deliberately messed it up. It looked even better. A slow grin appeared. “Oh, I like this.” Rachel stood and came closer. “It suits you.” Sally turned her head left, then right. The girl in the mirror was still unmistakably Sally. Just slightly rougher around the edges. A little freer. Ramona smiled triumphantly. “Girl with attitude.” Sally touched the loose hair beside her cheek. “And the heart?” Ramona winked. “Still showing.” -- The longer Sally looked, the more she liked it. She ran both hands through her hair again, lifting it from the roots and letting it fall wherever it wanted. It was strange. Light. For years she had been accustomed to seeing dark hair as part of the outline of herself—falling over her shoulders, framing her neck, sometimes hiding half her face if she didn’t tie it back. Now her face seemed suddenly exposed. Sally tilted her head. A bit boyish. The thought made her frown. No. Not really. She looked more carefully. Her face was too visible for that. The shorter layers actually emphasized its femininity rather than taking anything away. Her cheekbones showed more. Her eyes seemed larger without long dark strands competing with them. When she turned sideways, she could see the line of her jaw and, surprisingly, her neck. Sally rotated her head farther. “Oh, wow.” “What?” Ramona asked. “I have a neck.” Rachel snorted from behind her. “I was reasonably sure you had one before.” “You couldn’t see it.” Sally lifted the hair at the back and let it fall again. It brushed the base of her neck instead of covering her shoulders. She turned the other way. There was something slightly rebellious about it. Maybe that was what Ramona had meant by roughening her up. Not boyish. Not elegant in the carefully arranged sense either. Just young. Loose. She could imagine it after swimming, damp and pushed behind her ears. She could imagine sunglasses on top of it, or letting the wind destroy it on the yacht without caring. No elaborate drying. No long ponytail becoming a wet rope down her back. Sally smiled at herself. “This is going to be so much easier.” “That was the idea,” Ramona said. “How do I take care of it?” Ramona came alongside her and ran her fingers through the layers. “First, stop trying too hard.” Sally looked suspiciously at her. “That’s hair advice?” “Very important hair advice. Shampoo normally. Conditioner, but don’t drown it. Your hair has enough body already. When you get out of the shower, towel it gently. Don’t rub it like you’re polishing a car.” Sally nodded seriously. “And then?” “Most days? Nothing.” Sally blinked. “Nothing?” “Let it air-dry. Use your fingers. If you want more texture, a little lightweight product.” Ramona demonstrated by scrunching the ends upward. “Salt spray occasionally, although you’re about to spend a week in the Adriatic, so God is providing that for free.” Sally laughed. “What about my Airstrait?” “You can use it. It’ll look cleaner and smoother. But don’t straighten all the personality out of what I just spent forty minutes putting in.” “Got it.” “And after swimming, rinse it. Especially pool water. Condition it. Sun, salt and chlorine together will dry anything.” Sally turned her head again. It really did change her. Not dramatically, and that was perhaps why she liked it so much. She still looked like herself, just without all that hair.  She pushed it completely behind both ears. Too severe. She shook it loose. Better. Then she swept one side behind an ear and left the other alone. Sally grinned. “There.” Ramona nodded approvingly. “There.” Rachel checked her phone and her expression changed. “Speaking of the Adriatic…” Sally was still experimenting with the front pieces. “Hmm?” “You need to get going.” Sally grabbed her bag, then stopped in front of the mirror for one final look. She turned her head. The short black layers bounced and settled around her face. Despite herself, she smiled. Rachel was already heading toward the door. “Sally.” “Coming!” She hurried after her, then caught her reflection in another mirror as she passed. Sally slowed for half a step. Yeah. She really liked it. “Move, haircut!” Laughing, Sally followed Rachel out. -- Sally buckled her seat belt. Even resting her head against the headrest made her acutely aware that something had changed. There was no thick cushion of hair trapped behind her shoulders anymore, nothing to pull free from beneath the belt. She moved her head experimentally. Weird. Sally checked the mirror, signaled and pulled into the road. “Sexy,” Rachel said. Sally frowned immediately. “No, I’m not.” Heat crept into her cheeks despite herself. “I might be many things, but not that.” Rachel considered her. “Okay. But cute won’t cut it anymore, girl.” Sally shook her head and concentrated on driving. This had gotten completely out of hand. She had gone to a hairdresser because her hair was too long. That was all. She had cut it before and emerged afterward with exactly what she had requested: shorter hair. This was something else. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Ramona had somehow given her a new version of herself without asking permission first. Not radically new. That was the strange part. There was no dramatic color, no outrageous style. It was still black, still unmistakably hers. But the loose layers exposed more of her face and neck, and there was something almost careless about the way it moved. A little wild. A little tougher. Sally wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for that girl. Except— She pressed her lips together. Maybe she was. Perhaps that was why she liked it. She hadn’t sat down that morning and decided to reinvent herself. She hadn’t tried to make some profound statement about growing up or surviving crashes or becoming Junior CEO or driving Lamborghinis or any of the other ridiculous things that had become part of her life. She had simply needed a haircut, and this had happened.  Now she had to deal with her father. Sally’s fingers tightened fractionally on the wheel. What would he think? Worse, what would he say? Her mother would react too. Definitely. But at least Bridget was several thousand miles away. Sally could introduce the new haircut gradually through a carefully selected photograph before appearing in Zurich. Dad was waiting at home. No preparation. She was suddenly grateful for the Ray-Bans hiding most of her expression. Sally frowned slightly, then set her jaw. It was done, there was absolutely no going back now. Rachel interrupted her thoughts. “You know what else?” “What?” “You look… not meaner.” “Wonderful.” “No, listen.” Rachel studied her for a moment. “More determined. Secure. Cool, even.” Sally gave an uncertain chuckle. “Really?” “Yeah.” Rachel tilted her head, apparently developing the idea. “Now I can imagine you with a gun.” Sally turned her head. “What?” “And sparring.” “What?” “In the boxing ring.” Sally almost laughed. “Me? Boxing?” “Why not?” “Because nobody has ever looked at me and thought, there goes a boxer.” “I just did.” Rachel shrugged. “Best way to toughen you up.” Sally glanced at her. “You want to make me tough?” “It’ll make you easier to protect.” Rachel winked. “And it’s good for confidence. Calmness under pressure. You learn what happens when somebody gets into your space. You get pushed around in a controlled environment, discover you don’t fall apart, and learn to think while you’re uncomfortable.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “That became philosophical very quickly.” “It is philosophical.” “Getting punched?” “Preferably learning not to get punched.” “Ah. That sounds better.” “You’ll get punched eventually.” Sally stared ahead. “There it is.” Rachel laughed. “Seriously. Sporting environment, controlled contact, good coaching. It teaches you not to panic just because something suddenly becomes physical. That’s useful.” Sally considered it. There was something intriguing about the idea. Not fighting. She had no particular desire to become someone who fought people. But learning? Testing herself? That was different. “Come by when you’re back,” Rachel said. “I’ll show you around properly.” “Guns and boxing.” “And fitness.” “I knew there had to be something unpleasant.” Rachel laughed. Sally turned into Solano Prado, a crooked little grin appearing beneath her sunglasses. “Maybe I will.” Then the house came into view. Sally’s grin faded. Her father was home. She instinctively touched her new hair. “Oh, boy.” Rachel looked over. “What?” “Now I have to face Dad.” Rachel stared at her for a second. “You drive an Aventador and you’re worried about your father seeing your haircut?” Sally pulled into the driveway. “You haven’t met my family properly yet.” She switched off the Fiesta. “This could be much more dangerous.” -- There was already a black Suburban in the driveway when Sally turned into Solano Prado. Her father stood beside it talking to Daniel, Rachel’s father, apparently in the middle of something important enough that Sally decided not to interrupt. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t quite ready to be inspected. She pretended not to notice either of them and drove past, turning the Fiesta around in front of the garage before carefully positioning it off to the side. She switched off the engine. Here goes. Sally climbed out, Ray-Bans still covering her eyes, her newly shortened hair catching the warm breeze almost immediately and moving loosely around her face. Adrian glanced toward her. Then looked again. Sally caught the double take. She closed the door, took off her sunglasses and smiled at him. Adrian stared for another second before a grin broke across his face. “Well, look at that.” Sally made a face. That wasn’t enough. She waited. Adrian apparently recognized the requirement for clearer feedback. “You look nice.” “You think so?” The skepticism in Sally’s voice made Daniel smile discreetly and find something else to look at. Adrian pressed his lips together and gave a small shrug. “It’s a surprise. But yes, I like it.” Sally touched the ends self-consciously. “Just nice?” “Liebling, don’t ask me for a detailed analysis.” Adrian gestured helplessly. “I’m over fifty and I’m your father. I have absolutely no idea what your haircut is called.” Sally’s mouth twitched. “Shag.” Adrian blinked. “A what?” Sally laughed. “Never mind.” “Exactly.” He nodded with satisfaction. “But yes. You look beautiful.” That was better. Sally broke into a grin and shrugged, trying to make the compliment matter considerably less than it did. “Thanks, Dad.” Adrian looked at her once more, evidently still adjusting to the change. “Your mother has seen this?” “Not yet.” His eyebrows rose. Sally pointed at him. “Don’t.” “I said nothing.” Adrian chuckled and surrendered with both hands. “Fine. Your problem.” He glanced at his watch. “Now go get ready. We’re leaving in an hour.” That abruptly reminded Sally that her haircut had occupied considerably more of the afternoon than intended. “Right. Packing.” Rachel had already opened the Fiesta’s trunk and began gathering Walmart bags. Sally hurried over to help, and between them they carried the haul into the house. At the foot of the stairs, Sally took the bags from her. “I’ve got these.” Rachel surrendered them. “Yell when the suitcases are ready. I’ll give you a hand bringing them down.” “Thanks.” Sally started upstairs, arms loaded with Goldfish, cereal, Mac & Cheese, Skittles and one small present for Oskar. Halfway up, she heard Adrian behind her. “I really do like the hair, Sally.” She stopped. A smile appeared before she turned around. “Thanks, Dad.” Then she continued upstairs, the short black layers bouncing lightly against her neck. Yeah. She definitely liked it. -- Packing turned out to be considerably easier than Sally had expected. She didn’t really need clothes. Most of what she would wear in Zurich was already there, and Croatia was largely covered by yesterday’s enthusiastic assault on Bal Harbour. The new dresses, shorts, bikinis and swim trunks went in, along with the American junk-food contraband from Walmart and the diapers she was taking with her. Two large suitcases. Done. Sally checked her Swiss First baggage allowance one more time and smiled. More than enough. One advantage, apparently, of flying commercial at the expensive end of the airplane. Now came the more immediate question. What to wear. Sally stood in front of her closet and considered the overnight flight. She had no particularly high expectations of waking dry. Not right now, and certainly not after an evening in first class, where drinks appeared whenever you looked remotely thirsty and somebody would probably offer her water three separate times before turning down the bed. She would wear a diaper. The decision came easily. She’d done it on flights before, and the practical side didn’t bother her. If anything, an overnight flight was one of the situations where wearing protection made perfect sense. The only difference this time was that her father would be traveling with her. Sally had 1A. Adrian was directly across the aisle in 1D. She thought about that for approximately five seconds before dismissing it. Her father might know about the recent return to diapers. He might not. Sally genuinely wasn’t sure how much her mother had told him. But Adrian was Adrian. If he happened to notice anything suggesting his daughter had chosen to wear protection for an overnight flight, she doubted he would even blink. So. Clothes. For Sally, flying was about comfort. Style came somewhere considerably farther down the list. Years of private aviation had taught her that nobody cared what you looked like six hours into an overnight flight, and her experiences in international first class had only reinforced the point. The people who looked smartest entering the aircraft were frequently the ones who looked most miserable halfway across the Atlantic. Black track pants. Soft, slightly baggy, but not enough to look shapeless. Perfect. Trainers. Easy on, easy off. They would disappear beneath the ottoman approximately five minutes after takeoff anyway. A yellow T-shirt, old enough to have achieved exactly the right softness. And a lightweight hoodie. Always a hoodie. You could control almost everything about first-class travel except the mysterious patch of Arctic air conditioning that inevitably found you at three in the morning. Sally laid everything on the bed. Done. She added two diapers to her travel things. One disappeared discreetly into her wash bag, which she could carry into the lavatory when she changed for the night. Another went into her backpack. She probably wouldn’t need the second. But probably was exactly why you packed a spare. Sally zipped the backpack closed. Her gaze caught the mirror. She stopped. For a moment, she’d forgotten. The girl looking back at her had short hair. Sally smiled. She turned her head slightly, watching the loose raven layers move around her face and settle against her neck. Even dressed in track pants and an old yellow T-shirt, it changed something. She looked sharper somehow. A little more confident. Perhaps even a little older. Or maybe she simply felt that way. Sally pushed one side behind her ear. Then deliberately mussed the rest with both hands. Better. She slipped on the hoodie, looked at herself once more and nodded. New hair. Two suitcases. Backpack. Zurich tonight. Croatia in a few days. And, for once, doctor’s orders were essentially to stop worrying and enjoy herself. Sally grinned at her reflection. “Good to go.”