Anamorphosis

She came to me at the end of something. A friend first, a model second - that order has always mattered between us.

We talked for a long time. About what falls away when a chapter quietly closes. About the strange weight of staying still inside a body that has outgrown its current shape.

Almost in passing, I said it out loud: sometimes a haircut is enough. A new line at the jaw, a darker colour pulled through the roots - small, almost domestic acts, surprisingly capable of starting an anamorphosis. A rebirth of form.

The word stayed with us. We let it become a series.

I'm lucky enough to know a master hairdresser whose work leans editorial - almost theatrical. He agreed to be the third hand in the room, the one trusted with the scissors.

What follows is what unfolded that afternoon: the chair, the steam, the patient violence of the blades, the slow shift in posture that arrives when someone catches an unfamiliar version of themselves in the mirror and decides, very quietly, to keep her.

It is not a haircut story. It is the record of one woman stepping out of one form and into another - in real time, photographed by someone who has known her long enough to be allowed in the room.