She'd been dyeing her roots every three weeks for eleven years.
Same routine. Gloves on. Timer set. Rinse until the water runs clear. Blow dry. Done.
She never thought twice about it.
Until the morning she ran a brush through her hair and counted.
Forty-seven strands. In one pass.
She started watching after that. The shower drain. The pillow. The back of her office chair. Hair everywhere she looked.
Her part was wider than last year. She could see it in photos. Her ponytail was half the size it used to be.
When she pulled her ends, they didn't stretch. They snapped. Like dry thread.
She thought it was aging. She thought it was stress. She thought it was just how it goes after 40.
She was wrong.