Thursday is always my ‘errands and appointments’ day. It’s a comforting, predictable rhythm. Groceries. Dry cleaning. Hair appointment at 2. I sat in the salon chair today, watching my grays get covered up, my roots blended to perfection. The stylist chatted about her boyfriend, and I just smiled and nodded. All I could think about was how, later, when the house is empty, I’ll let my hair down from this perfect, suburban-mom bun. I’ll run my fingers through it and remember how it felt to have someone’s fist tangled in it, pulling my head back while he fucked me from behind. How the scent of his skin and my shampoo mixed in the air. How he told me, in that raw, possessive voice, that he loved seeing my perfect hair get completely wrecked. That’s the real appointment I keep. Not the one for my highlights, but the one where I get to be messy, undone, and completely his. The thrill isn’t in looking perfect—it’s in knowing exactly who gets to ruin it.