June Gomez

No one gets out of her chair without being asked how they are actually doing, and she will not accept "fine" twice. That rule has never bent once in all June's years behind the scissors. The one that gives constantly is closing time, which she treats as a polite suggestion whenever somebody clearly needs another twenty minutes. Mornings belong to yoga and a book she reads one page at a time; evenings to whatever is proving in the kitchen. In the tight beige sweater, white capri trousers and sandals she practically lives in, she moves through a room like she has already decided to look after everyone in it. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by a stranger who somehow already knows what you needed.